King of Thieves
by whytewytch
Summary: WARNING: WIP ON INDEFINITE HOLD! RL has been crazy. I do plan to eventually finish this story, but it will not be anytime soon. The 3rd book in my "Thieves" trilogy. Deirdre & Allan are now respectable, but how long until they find trouble? And how long before trouble finds Guy & Addy? 3rd storyline is my OC, Ruarc. Rated M for graphic sex, possible violence, VERY adult themes!
1. Chapter 1: New Lives

_Malahide, Ireland: July, 1196_

Ireland never really got hot, not even in the summer, particularly not on the coast with ocean breezes to keep things cool. Inside the kitchen of the Lia Fáil, however, Deirdre felt like she was melting, despite the sun just beginning to peek through the morning mist. She had just removed another pie from the oven—the bread was cooling on a table near the window. The day had only just started and she was already worn out. She liked to cook, but she remembered what life had been like for her mother before her father had come along to claim her and make her a lady. Deirdre saw herself following down the same exhausting path, only with no possibility of a great lord coming to her rescue.

Not that she didn't love Allan, but some days, when too many late nights and too many early days caught up with her, Deirdre wished Allan had been a nobleman. She seemed to be tired all the time, particularly of late. She assumed she was just feeling the year's worth of long hours-- all of them full of labor between the cooking, the cleaning, and the babies. Tom was a year and a half old now, Jack was just shy of six months old, and so required much of Deirdre's time still.

Hearing the scrape of wood on wood, she realized the first of their overnight guests had awoken and was ready for breakfast. She picked up a broom and thumped the handle loudly on the ceiling, which was also the floor of their bedroom. Jack began to squall, and soon she could hear Allan grumbling as the noise of their youngest disturbed his sleep, waking up Tom in the process. She plated up the breakfast as Allan came down the stairs, Jack's wailing growing louder with each step. Deirdre settled Tom at the table with a plate, then reached for Jack and sat in a chair by the fire, placing the infant to her breast. Allan grabbed a few of the remaining plates and headed for the main room after a look from Deirdre had him changing his mind about sitting down to eat his own breakfast. He came back twice for more, as the front room began filling up.

Soon, the sound of laughter drifted in from the next room, as Allan's genial nature overtook his morning grumpiness, and he began charming the customers. It wasn't long before the boarders had left—some were single men who stayed year round, others were travelers going to or from other parts of Ireland.

It was these last that Allan spoke to, particularly those who had come from England—had they heard any news of Robin Hood? How were things in the shires? Deirdre had been sensing a growing restlessness in her husband of late. She knew he had never really been comfortable with the idea of leaving the gang, but had done so out of necessity, to keep her and Tom safe. Now there was another mouth to feed, and Allan was a respectable business-man; Mike had officially handed off the Lia Fáil to the A' Dales the previous winter, when once more, the cold had settled in his bones, reminding him of his old age. She knew Allan missed thieving sometimes, pitting his wit against that of others to relieve them of their purses; she missed it herself—the planning, the carrying out of the plan, the rush in the blood _while_ carrying out the plan, the giddiness of a plan well-executed when the reward was heavy in your hand. Despite a part of her wishing that Allan had been born a noble so that she wouldn't have to work so hard every day, she knew that she would never have been content to be some lord's broodmare. All she wanted was a little excitement in her life. Being Irish, she should have known to be more careful of what she wished for.

* * *

_Sherwood Forest, England_

It was hot in Sherwood, being high summer, and the gang had finally come to a stop after making all the preparations. Some of the people of Locksley stood with them, waiting patiently for the ceremony to begin, and Will had sent to Scarborough for his brother Luke. Now, Luke stood beside his brother, awaiting the women.

After the close call that Allan and Deirdre had had in London, and his talk with Allan a year and a half ago, Will had decided to ask Djaq to marry him, even though she had already asked him. Typical of Will, he refused to marry her until he had at least built them a better shelter, though. It had also taken many months to try to find a clergyman from either of their religions to join them, but both religions demanded that the other one change—the priests in England had demanded Djaq denounce her religion and become Christian, and vice versa. When no accord could be reached, Will and Djaq had spent many weeks miserable, thinking they could never be together as man and wife—each had prayed to their god, asking for help, and each had found that prayer answered in the form of Robin.

As former Lord of Locksley, Robin still (theoretically) had the power to unite them. Robin was uniquely suited to the job as a Christian who still loved and feared his god, but respected Allah as well and could quote the Koran. After Robin had eagerly agreed to perform the ceremony, they had sent to Scarborough for Luke, then waited for the rains to stop. Many residents of Locksley knew and loved Will, and had come to feel the same about Djaq, despite her Islamic ways, and so the little clearing was full of people.

Now, Will stood waiting nervously, thinking about how much his life was going to change from this point on. He was particularly nervous about his wedding night, and while he knew Allan would have teased him insufferably, he also knew the man's advice would have been sound. He found he missed Allan more than he would have thought of such a man who was his opposite in nearly every way. Allan would have had specific and detailed advice, which would have embarrassed Will, but which he would have been thankful for later; Robin had merely shrugged and claimed, "you'll know what to do." He glanced at Robin, who stood to his side as they awaited the women, hoping his leader had been right.

Marian, in her role of Matron of Honor, led the way, with Djaq following a short distance behind. The white dress gleamed bright against her dark skin and the sun glinted off her black hair. Seeing her coming toward him, looking so beautiful with her dark hair now flowing past her shoulders and her brown eyes sparkling with warmth, he wondered if he was doing right by her; she deserved better—a husband with "many goats" as she would have said, not an outlaw on the run who did not even share her religion. In their past years together, he had learned much from her and from Robin about Islam, about Allah, and the Koran. While he could see that Allah was very much like their own God—peaceful and loving—he could not bring himself to denounce God in order to accept Allah.

Suddenly, a smile lit Djaq's face as she saw Will's hesitation, and Will found himself once more enraptured by her. He would do whatever it took to keep them together, and to keep her safe; at that moment, he _would_ have denounced God. Quickly, he sent up a prayer, asking forgiveness for such a thought, and then Djaq's hand was in his and they were turning to face Robin and repeat the words of the ceremony that would bind them together.

"My friends, we are gathered here today to witness the coming together of Will Scarlett and Djaq…" Robin paused, non-plussed. "What's your last name?" he whispered in an aside to her.

"First of all, it's Safia, not Djaq. My full name is Safia Amatallah bint Akram bin Jafari Al-Fulan."

Will's eyes widened at the length of her name, and he blinked pleadingly at Robin, begging him silently to not make a mistake.

Robin had been long in the Holy Land though, and was used to the length of Muslim names, used to remembering them so as not to offend.

"We are gathered here today to witness the joining of Will Scarlett and…" Robin slowed down, ensuring he remembered each of her names properly. "Safia Amatallah bint Akram bin Jafari Al-Fulan."

Djaq beamed at him, pleased he had remembered her family's names.

Robin spoke the words which would bind them, and when he came to parts that mentioned God, he also spoke the name of Allah. At the end of the ceremony, he pronounced them man and wife, and gave the blushing Will permission to kiss his new bride.

Will turned to Djaq and smiled awkwardly at her—it was not that they had never kissed, but that they had never done so before an audience. Excruciatingly slowly, Will bent toward her, his large, calloused hand resting on her soft cheek; when their lips finally met, the whole crowd cheered. Djaq grabbed the back of Will's head and pulled him to her when he would have pulled away, startled by the sudden noise. He smiled at her as they broke apart from the kiss and turned to face their witnesses.

Will led Djaq back to the tables which were laden with bread and meat, fish and vegetables, berries and pies, both of them filling their plates before settling down to eat. Before long, the ribald jokes began, increasing in frequency as the day drew toward dusk. Will thought he would burst with embarrassment by the time he rose and took Djaq's hand, leading her toward the home he had built for them.

The house was built of wood, stone, and leaves, and blended so well with the surrounding trees thanks to Will's creativity, that one would have had to walk right up to it to see it, even when the smoke was wisping from its chimney. Will had built doors into the front and back, as well as windows on either side, both to ensure catching the breezes in summer, and to add more escape routes. Nestled in the trees as it was, one could be invisible in seconds after leaving the house. Just in case, Will had also built a trap-door in the floor that connected to a wheel-spoke of tunnels which lead deep into the woods in many different directions. For now, there were only two spokes on the wheel, but he planned to finish the other ones before the ground froze. Work would go more quickly once he had revealed the design to Robin, and had the help of the gang.

Djaq was enchanted the moment her eyes were able to pick out her new home; even with her sharp eyesight and knowledge of the forest gained in the last few years, she could not do so nearly until Will opened the front door. The house looked like the trees themselves, and in fact, looked to Djaq like Will had merely filled in the spaces in a copse of already close-standing trees; roots even led out from the sides of the house, adding to the illusion that the home was merely part of the forest. The lines for the door were so smooth, and the handle was a knot, that Djaq was afraid she would be unable to find her way back into her own home.

Will swept her off her feet once the door was open and they stepped up to enter the cabin. Will had raised the floor so that they would not be tripping over the roots nor walking through streams in their house. Djaq looked around in further delight in the feeble dying light of the day. Quickly, Will moved to start a fire in the hearth, its light allowing Djaq to see the other details of the house—a long, narrow workbench stood near the fire, and Djaq could already see some herbs drying on and above it. At the back of the small room sat the bed, and Djaq blushed to see it, with the covers already turned down; to her left stood a small table with two chairs. The dying sun touched the doorway, its golden rays reminding Djaq that she must pray. Will seemed to read her mind, having grown accustomed to many of her ways, and directed her to the small bowl of water on the table, turning to give her privacy to wash before she stepped outside to thank Allah for this day and ask his blessings on another. Will dropped to his knees nearby to whisper his own thanks to God before the two joined hands and went back into their home together.

* * *

_Mablethorpe, England_

Sweat dripped from Sir Guy of Gisbourne's body and he grunted in his exertions, his shoulder muscles bulging from effort. He licked his dry lips and paused before throwing his body back into it, his moves rhythmic, his body graceful and lithe. He grinned ferally as he felt the end coming, then roared his triumph.

On the ground below his straddled knees, the man gasped in surprise; he had not expected his lord to finish him so quickly. Yet, here he was on the ground, Sir Guy of Gisbourne, Lord of Mablethorpe and Locksley, straddling him and breathing heavily. Sir Guy's jeweled knife was at the guard's throat. Other guards stood in a ring around the two men, blocking them from the eyes of others and muttering, hoping His Lordship wouldn't choose them next. These days, with Lady Adelaide still unable to complete her wifely duties from the birth of their son, Sir Guy was dangerous to be around. Any little thing could set him off, and he had plenty of energy to spare, despite spending the mornings in the fields looking over the crops, and the late afternoons and evenings checking on the livestock and the fishing in the little village.

Guy had become a hands-on lord out of necessity; when he had first told the peasants that anyone who had joked at Lady Adelaide's expense or partaken in her abuses during the previous Lord of Mablethorpe's rule had one week to quit Mablethorpe or they would die, many had run—some merely from association with the guilty parties. Lord Henry—Lady Adelaide's first husband—had been cruel to the extreme, the kind of man who, as a boy, would have pulled the wings off a fly for pleasure. Henry had abused his wife, raping her at least once daily, often insisting that the servants attend, sometimes even ordering them to participate by holding the lady down or raping her themselves with various objects; although the men were only ever allowed to take her in the Greek or French ways, never allowed to spill their seed where it might take in her body and produce a bastard. Many of the peasants who had at first been forced to participate had found themselves enjoying the lady's debasement as the thrill of a power usually denied them ran through their blood. These were the ones who ran far and fast when Sir Guy had made his announcement; they had seen him with the lady, and it was obvious this was a man who cherished his wife. Death would come slowly and painfully to any who harmed the Lady Adelaide, it was plain in Sir Guy's stance and in the harsh glare of his eyes when he looked upon the servants of Mablethorpe, trying to pick out the offenders.

By harvest-time, much of the work had fallen onto the broad shoulders of Sir Guy and the few peasants who had remained. They had begun work each day before dawn and continued until well after dark, the older people holding up torches so that the workers could see what they were doing. By the end of the harvest, Guy's chest had swelled with pride on two accounts—one, the harvest was in and was a good accounting, and two, his lady wife would bear him a child the following spring or summer.

It was late in April when the child arrived, but there had been complications, and only the arrival of a midwife, sent for by Lady Adelaide's maid, Mary, had saved the life of both his wife and son. Each month, the midwife came to check on Lady Adelaide; the crone was due any day now, and Guy was anxious, hoping that this time, she would give her permission for him to lie with Adelaide once more. It rankled Guy to have to take orders from a serf, particularly about a subject so private, but the woman was said to be quite good at what she did, and the fact that she had saved both his wife and son gave her some standing in Guy's eyes.

Now, as he kneeled above the latest of his "victims," the circle of men began to break up on one side. He looked up to see the midwife staring at him in open amusement and clucking her tongue.

"I knew ye were in a bad way when I left last month, sayin' as how yer wife weren't ready to lie with ye yet, but I didn't know ye'd take to sodomizing yer men," she joked.

Guy looked in consternation from the old woman to the man below him and quickly jumped up, helping the other man to his feet. He dipped his head to one side, looking meaningfully at the knife in his hand.

"I do not participate in the Greek practice, woman. Ever. My men and I were practicing with knives for close-in fighting." Guy turned, dismissing the men as he moved to the water bucket to sluice his body, dumping the water over his head and shaking his damp locks before drying with a towel and pulling on his shirt roughly. He began walking, motioning the old woman to follow him.

"So, what news? How do my lady wife and my son?"

"They are well and healthy, My Lord," the midwife replied, grinning as she toyed with Sir Guy. Men were the same, no matter their station—always wanting what was between a woman's legs. She had been a bit surprised—and pleased—to find that this man however, had not run to a brothel as most men did when they were unable to lie with their wives.

"I am glad of it," Guy replied guardedly. The old woman taxed his patience sometimes, but he owed her a debt he could never repay. After Roger's* birth, Guy had tried to set the woman up in a nicer house, but she had refused, so Guy had sent men to fix her current home instead. He had sent her silk, and she had returned it regretfully, asking of what use it would be to her, living in the rough as she did. Guy had then sent her new dresses and cloaks made of homespun, and boots made of soft leather—these she had graciously accepted, although she had only taken one of each article of clothing for herself; the rest she had distributed to the poorer people of her village, along with much of the food Guy had sent to her. It had been three months though, and Guy was feeling edgy, despite Addy helping to relieve some of his tension with her hands or her mouth. While he enjoyed the feel of her touching him with any part of her body, he still craved the feeling of lying between her legs, holding her close while he made love to her. Suddenly, he turned on the midwife.

"Look, woman—just tell me! May I lie with my wife or not?"

The woman smiled, despite the rough grip of his hands on her arms.

"Go slowly. There will be more pain for her than the first time she lay with a man, but if you are gentle, she shall soon be back to normal."

Guy grinned in utter delight, looking to the sky. The look of longing on his face had the midwife laughing—she knew he was praying for night to come quickly, just as his wife had done when she had given the lady the same news.

* * *

**A/N: **Well, here it is at long last and likely not worth so long a wait. Let me know what you think, please! Thanks a million times over to whatsthefracas for her beta skills!

***: **Named after Guy's father, pronounced the same way, "Rog-ay"


	2. Chapter 2: Storm Blown

_Malahide, Ireland, October, 1196_

The Irish Sea was nearly always rough, but this was one of the worst storms Captain Áinfean Murphy had seen in her many years on the water. The hair which she kept tightly bound behind her was coming from its tie, whipping her face and stinging her where it landed, leaving red marks on her skin. The wind howled and the waves tossed her ship about like a leaf in a gale. Wood creaked and strained, groaning against the abuse from the elements. Captain Murphy sniffed the air as she looked to the dark skies around her. It was night-time, a dangerous time to be on the water anyway, but it was the best time for her and her crew to accomplish their tasks. No one expected to be raided at night, and certainly not by a crew of men and women, led by a female captain. They particularly did not expect it while they were lying at anchor in some harbor.

The _Murtagh _was a small, light ship, meant for quick raids along the coast. Captain Murphy refused to engage in sea battles, having lost her father and older brother in one. The _Murtagh_'s lightness was a disadvantage in their current situation—it was difficult at best to control a ship that was being thrown about on the water. Captain Murphy began shouting orders, calling for her crew to tack into the wind as a yellow leaf, borne by the wind, smacked wetly into her cheek. The storm was not abating, and if they didn't find shelter soon, they would all die. She knew it was nearly as risky to head toward land in such a blow, but she trusted her instincts and her knowledge of the Irish coastline to guide them to safety. As insurance, she sent up a silent prayer to God to help them. And, just to be safe, to, Manannán mac Lir, the Irish god of the sea and weather.

* * *

It was mid-October and the rain never seemed to stop. Off the coast, a storm was kicking up, driving down from the north and carrying the chill winds of winter with it; everything felt cold and damp, with small patches of warmth and light and dryness. One such patch was the Lia Fáil Inn. Despite the darkness and the cold wet outside, the people inside were in a celebratory mood. Local people came to eat at the Lia Fáil as often as their pockets would allow—between the food, the music, and the laughter, the pub and its owners drew them into their warm embrace year round.

Deirdre A' Dale was a bang-up cook, and once the local wives got over their initial jealousy and realized that the whole family could eat dinner at the inn and they didn't have to cook, fights would break out in many a home when they _couldn't_ go to the inn to eat. Mind, many a fight still took place when jealous husbands or protective fathers would watch their women's eyes glow with desire for the man of the inn, Allan A' Dale. When Allan picked up his harp and began to sing, the married women forgot their husbands, and daughters forgot how old the singer was; they were lost in his soft baritone voice and in the way his lashes fanned the top of his cheeks as he bent over the clairsach. Sometimes the lord of their village would come as well, adding his own strong bass to Allan's, singing songs that would wring tears from the Devil himself; when Deirdre joined the two men, the listeners could swear the Fair Folk were gathering at the windows and doors as well to hear.

Such a night was this night, and the ragtag group paused inside the door, their hoods drawn close to keep out the wet and the cold. They watched the trio perform before the packed room, their voices intermingling to weave a spell that had everyone seeming to hold their breaths—even the babies were silent. The group was surprised to find so many women and children in the pub; usually only the women who were working--serving drinks and their bodies--were found in pubs. It was obvious the Lia Fáil was a different kind of place.

The song finished, and Deirdre leaned down to kiss Lord Ruarc O'Brian on the cheek before her husband grabbed her and bent her backwards over his lap, kissing her soundly on the mouth to the applause and laughter of all there, even Lord Ruarc. The spell was broken and conversation and laughs filled in the musical gap as Deirdre and Allan went back to serving drinks and food.

The group moved further into the room, their course taking them closer to the lord of the dun, who sat near the fire. They were cold and wet, and had just lived through the herculean struggle of bringing their ship into port without it being dashed by the waves and sunk out at sea.

They had tried desperately to tack to the leeward side of the bay, but the winds had been too strong, and had driven them aground on the southern side. When she had seen they were going to crash anyway, their captain had ordered them to raise the mainsail to give them speed and drive them up the beach more since there was nothing in the area to tie off their ship to. Getting the ship back in the water was going to require help, from both shore and bay, but at least it was not going anywhere for now. A newlywed couple from her crew had decided to stay and keep watch, insisting that Captain Murphy and her second, Cameron MacKenzie go inland with the crew toward the castle they had seen . Castles meant villages, which meant people, which meant food, drink, warmth, and a chance to recruit help unsticking the ship once the storm was over.

Now, Murphy approached the man by the fire, flanked by MacKenzie, a tall, robust Scot with a dangerous set to his body. Captain Murphy had saved him when pirates had set upon his former captain's ship and left everyone in the water for dead—only MacKenzie had proved them wrong. MacKenzie adored the captain, and would give his life for her if necessary. Now he stood to her right hand and slightly behind her, the only one of them whose cloak was thrown back, his big hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to protect his captain from harm or even slights.

Ruarc turned to look up at the approaching band of people, noting that their cloaks looked a bit bulky and guessing rightly that they were still carrying their weapons. He rose as the group neared him, and gave a slight bow.

"Welcome, friends," he began, giving Allan a slight nod to indicate he needed his assistance. Ruarc was a formidable warrior and had his pride, but this group was ten people strong and still armed; he was no fool.

The leader of the group was slightly shorter than the big man with the flashing gray eyes who stood behind her. She removed the cowl from her cloak, and Ruarc inhaled sharply. He had not been expecting a woman, particuarly not a beautiful one. Ruarc's eyes widened further as the others in the group removed their cowls, exposing that five more of them were women and the other three were men. The women looked just as dangerous as the men, and Ruarc was glad when Allan joined him. Being a Celt, Ruarc was not prejudiced by ludicrous ideas of a woman's frailty. His own mother had fought in many battles beside his father, as had his sisters. He painted on a welcoming smile and offered his hand to the leader, who returned the handshake.

"We are glad of your welcome," she spoke softly, her accent Irish, but with a hint of other lands as well. Her hair, a deep red that was nearly black in its damp state, was plastered to her face and neck, her eyes were the green of the deep ocean, and her skin was brown, kissed by the sun.

"In our present state, we would be gladder still of your fire, and warm food and ale, though," she continued, carefully calculating the two men before her. The shorter one didn't look all that dangerous, but from the apron at his waist, he was obviously the owner, and had likely broken up more fights than she had started—it wouldn't do to dismiss him. The other man caught her attention more—tall and broad of shoulder, with hair as black as a starless night and eyes the color of that same sky on a cloudless day. The white line of an old scar ran from the corner of his right eyebrow halfway to his hairline. He had the round face of a Celt and a wide, generous mouth that was bracketed by smile lines—when he smiled at her and her group, she found he had all his teeth. He seemed to be at ease, but she could sense the coiled energy waiting to spring from both men, although only the taller one had a sword; his hand rested nearby the hilt, but if he was a warrior of any worth, he could have it to hand in an instant. His clothes fit him nicely, and were a good quality—it was obvious he was a man of some standing.

Áinfean returned his smile—it was far easier to rob a man who thought there was no threat. Not that she planned to rob this one. Yet. First, there were crew men and women who needed warming, lest they catch their death of cold. Then, there was the ship to get back into the water.

A woman moved to stand by the right hand of the shorter man then, nodding to the group in welcome and smiling at them.

"You are well come to the Lia Fáil," the woman's voice was soft, yet left no doubt that she was the owner's wife, not some serving wench or whore, and her bearing was almost regal, despite the meanness of her surroundings. Áinfean noted then that the clothes of both of the owners were no scratchy homespun, but rather seemed to be made of the same cloth as the tall man. For now, the fact was just a matter of interest, but it would bear looking into later, to see if the pub owners should be robbed as well. Áinfean tilted her head in acknowledgement as the little blonde woman turned to the chestnut-haired man.

"Allan, darlin', you two step aside now and let our guests sit by the fire. They are cold and wet. Why are you and Ruarc blocking their way?"  
"Deirdre, you know the rules of the pub. No weapons." Allan nodded toward the group, whose cloaks still concealed their weapons.

"Now, darlin', I'm sure they didn't know."

Deirdre turned apologetically to the group, speaking to Áinfean, who judged the conversation between husband and wife correctly as a carefully calculated dance they had done before.

"I'm afraid my husband's right. We've a 'no weapons' rule. If you'll give them to Ruarc here, he'll see they're safely stowed."

Áinfean smiled sardonically at the sword on Ruarc's hip.

"Why does he carry a weapon if you've a 'no weapons' policy?" she asked bluntly.

"Because Lord Ruarc is our overlord. He also helps us to _enforce_ the policy," Deirdre responded, her voice icing over slightly.

Áinfean turned to the pub mistress, noting her slightly rounded figure was not nearly so rounded as the bodies of most women in her position. Just as with the pub owner, it would not do to dismiss her as being no threat.

Deirdre indicated the table before the fire as a place to lay the weapons as she spoke. "Let it never be said that Deirdre A' Dale is a poor hostess, but where alcohol flows, so too, does blood as often as not. I'll not have swords taking off limbs and endangering the lives of those I love and those under the protection of my roof."

Allan stood back, ready to throw Deirdre out of the way should the woman lunge at her, but also staying out of it, sensing that the power struggle between the women would not be aided by a man stepping in. He had learned a lot in the last couple of years of living with Deirdre, and in the past year or so of living in Ireland. The women he had grown up knowing about—those who tended hearth and home and needed the protection of men, were nowhere to be found in Ireland. Celtic women fought beside their men in battle, drank ale and uisce beatha and ran businesses and households as well. After having Deirdre pull knives away from his throat on numerous occasions for telling some woman she "couldn't" or "shouldn't" do this or that, he had learned to keep his mouth shut sometimes and just wait things out. Now, he watched cautiously as the leader of this group, who, as a woman, would have been scoffed at by Allan a mere two years ago, pulled back her cloak and slowly unsheathed her sword. He didn't let out the breath he was holding until she had placed the sword on the table with its hilt facing Ruarc, and until the rest of the group had done the same.

Deirdre's stance eased as well. She held out her hand to their newest guest.

"I am Deirdre A' Dale and this is my husband, Allan. We run the Lia Fáil. This is Lord Ruarc O'Brian, lord of this dun."

"I guessed as much," the woman smiled wryly at them. "I am Captain Áinfean Murphy. This is my second-in-command, Cameron MacKenzie, and these are our crew. Well, most of them. We'd like a meal for each of us, then two more, for our crewmembers who are still on board our ship."

"Right away," Deirdre's smile now reached her eyes as Ruarc and Allan took the swords to the kitchen to store them in a safe box they kept there. "Warm yourselves by the fire while I fetch them. I shant be long."

Deirdre turned and made for the kitchen herself, and began scooping out meals for the group while Allan poured the ale and gathered the cups. Deirdre wrapped two meals in oilskin and found a jug with a top to put more ale in for the hapless crewmembers still aboard the captain's ship. She brought out the two covered meals first, correctly judging that the captain would feed her crew before she herself ate.

"I am grateful to you, Mistresss," Captain Murphy stated as Deirdre laid the oilskin-protected bowls in front of her.

"No bother at all. You'll want help bringing them out." Deirdre was curious about the woman's ship. She knew she wouldn't be able to get away right now to see it, not with so many new mouths to feed, but she could send Ruarc and pick his brain later.

"I'll be fine. Please see to my crew."

Deirdre motioned Ruarc over. "Nonsense. My husband and I will see to your crew. Lord Ruarc will escort you to your ship, to keep you from harm."

Ruarc bent slightly from the waist and indicated the door, donning his own cloak before they headed into the dark and the storm.

Áinfean wondered what sort of lord took orders from a pub mistress, and why that pub mistress and her husband seemed so casual with their lord. This was something that definitely bore looking into—perhaps they would stick around for a day or two; if there was anything Áinfean could not abide, it was a mystery.

* * *

**A/N: I _am_ trying to post a new chapter every week, but please be patient if I am unable to keep this timeline--I will not post a chapter that I do not feel is ready, just for the sake of a time table. I want you to have the best that I can give you, because that's what you deserve. Oh, and please review!**


	3. Chapter 3: In Flagrante Dilicto

Guy sighed in contentment as he nuzzled his wife's neck in their bed. The day had been cold, but clear. He would ride to Locksley in the morning to check on his lands there, and ensure the village was ready for the winter. Addy would stay here, as she was loathe to take Roger out in the chill of the autumn air, even though the babe was now six months old. Addy sighed in her sleep and snuggled her body against Guy's, making him instantly hard.

He knew that Addy was bashful about her body still, particularly about the stretch marks that ran from her navel down, runnels of deep pink on her white skin; she found the stretch marks to be ugly, Guy thought of them as a sign of her bravery from the battle to give their son life. He found her breasts, heavy with milk, to be another source of wonder—not only had she given their son life, but she kept him alive even now with her body. Guy felt a twinge of remorse as he thought of his own mother, and of the harsh words he had spoken to her so soon before her death—a death he had caused. While he would never be able to bring her back to life, he could honor her death the best way he knew how—by being a good and faithful husband to Addy, and a strict but loving father to their children.

Guy's hand stroked along Addy's thigh as he kissed her neck, whispering for her to wake up. Addy sighed once more in contentment.

"What is it, Guy?" she murmured, her mind caught in the boggy swamp of half-sleep.

In answer, Guy's hand slid under her shift to cover her mound, one long finger delving between her nether lips. Addy groaned her agreement, hooking one leg over his as he moved closer to her; his erection pressed between her bottom cheeks as he held her close, readying her with his finger and with the kisses he placed along her neck and shoulder. After the way her first husband had treated her, Guy still found it a wonder that Addy no longer stiffened at the feel of him, hard against her buttocks.

Addy reached back, resting the back of her hand against her buttocks, squeezing Guy, who moaned and began stroking into her hand, keeping the same rhythm with his fingers until Addy tightened her lips around his digits and cried out softly.

Guy gave her no time to recover before he replaced his fingers with his cock, his thickness opening her further to him; he kept pushing until he was couched fully inside of her, his length throbbing as his fingers teased her sensitive nub.

"Guy," Addy called, squirming against him, her head dropped back in desire. Guy pulled slowly out of her, then thrust forward quickly, earning a delighted squeal from his wife. He thrust into her over and over until once more she cried out her passion.

He pulled out of her and rolled her onto her back, lifting her legs over his shoulders. Holding her hips, Guy surged forward, burying his length into her once more, slamming into her again and again. Desire washed over him as he watched her breasts bounce in the candlelight with every inward thrust, and as he looked down to see where their bodies joined. He dropped onto his hands, keeping her legs hooked over his shoulders, forcing her to take him deeply, and began pounding mercilessly into her body, her cries of pain turning to cries of pleasure instantly. The pressure built up until he could hold back no longer, and with a cry like a warrior going into battle, he emptied his seed into her belly. Addy went over the edge with him, her own cries sounding fierce in the stone chamber of their bedroom.

Guy pushed himself up and back onto his knees, allowing Addy to disentangle her legs from his shoulder before he collapsed on the bed next to her, pulling her into the crook of his arm. Slowly, their breathing steadied and Guy pulled her chin up to place a gentle kiss on her lips.

"I love you, Addy. I'll miss you both," he whispered against her mouth.

"We love you, too, Guy. Just please be careful," she whispered back, her fingers playing with the dark hair on the nape of his neck.

"I have nothing to fear in Locksley," he replied, smoothing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear and kissing her forehead.

"Perhaps, but you have much to fear in Nottingham and Sherwood. Roger and I need you, Guy. If temper threatens to get the better of you, please think of us. Make no rash decisions lest we lose you. I should not like to raise our _children_ alone, mon ami."

Guy smiled and held her close for a moment before her words sunk in.

"Did you say 'children'?" he asked, pushing her back so that he could better see her face.

"I did." Addy smiled at his shock, her green eyes alight with pleasure. "Are you so surprised to find me once more with child when you share my body nearly every night?"

Guy's grin of delight warmed Addy more than any hearth fire; this was her husband as she loved to see him—happiness reflecting in his eyes, his smile showing his white teeth, his face warm with love.

"You are my life, Addy. I will be careful, I promise," Guy vowed.

* * *

Ruarc and Áinfean stepped out into the gale, clutching the food and ale tightly to keep it from being ripped from their hands. The wind howled, buffeting them along the way, pushing them toward the ship; they knew the return journey would be far more difficult when they faced into the wind. Rain, driven by the high winds, stung their exposed flesh like angry bees; within seconds they were soaked through to their skins. Conversation was impossible—even simple directions were snatched up by the air the moment they left the speaker's mouth. Branches and thatches from roofs flew by, some barely missing the pair as they struggled along.

After what seemed forever, they arrived at the beached vessel; Ruarc could not see how they would ever board her since her deck stood thirty feet or more above their heads. Áinfean led them toward the bow, then slung the pouch carrying the food over her arm, motioning Ruarc to do the same. She reached for the ship and took hold of something that Ruarc could not see in the dark and the driving rain. Like a child climbing a tree on a sunny day, she scrambled up the rope ladder that was attached to the side of the ship.

Ruarc cocked an eyebrow at the flimsy looking ladder before grabbing hold and pulling his way dubiously and laboriously up to the deck as the wind tried to push him into the side of the ship. As he reached the top, another gust of wind swept across, shoving him nearly face-first into the planks; off balance, he reached for something to steady himself, his hand finding soft flesh instead of hard wood.

Áinfean looked wryly from his hand on her breast to his face, and he grinned at her, totally unembarrassed.

"Sorry!" he shouted above the wind, but since she had to remove his hand herself, Áinfean somehow doubted it. She waited until they were in the boat's hold, much more sheltered from the wind, before she replied to him.

"Better men than you have lost a hand that way, Lord O'Brian," she growled at him, lighting a lamp from her flint and turning so that he could see the danger reflecting in her eyes. "I suggest you keep your hands to yourself in future."

Ruarc pulled back the cowl of his cloak; his hair was still wet despite the hood's protection. In the flickering lamplight, he continued to smile. Áinfean found it disconcerting how handsome he looked standing there, his eyes sparkling with good humor, his wide mouth pulled back to show a mouth that was somehow full of strong white teeth; dimples marked the sides of his mouth and laugh lines creased his eyes.

"I was only tryin' to steady miself," he offered by way of apology.

"Next time, fall," Áinfean retorted angrily; she glared at him and turned to make her way back to the crew's quarters. As they approached the area that housed the crew, they began to hear a steady thumping sound above the sounds of the wind. Áinfean stopped so quickly that Ruarc bumped into her from behind; she spun on him angrily and he jumped back, raising his hands and glancing at her sidelong in mock apology. He watched in fascination as her cheeks began to burn; the sounds of passionate cries could be heard now in time with the thumping.

"Your, ah, crewmen—they a little light on their feet?" he asked, humor continuing to stamp his features.

Áinfean glared at him in consternation before she understood his reference, and then she somehow turned redder. Ruarc found the combination of red hair, red cheeks, and green eyes totally enchanting, amazed that a woman who carried a sword and commanded a ship could be so embarrassed by sex.

"No! They are a newly married couple—a man and a woman," she added at his look of surprise.

Ruarc chuckled, the sound low and throaty and somehow making Áinfean's stomach contract and a low throbbing begin between her legs. Combined with the sounds behind the door, Ruarc's presence was making her feel things she normally did not. She had long since known that there would never be hearth and home for her—no man would want her any more and she wanted no man. Ruarc stepped up to the door to listen, reminding her that all men were pigs; she slapped him, hissing at him in anger and embarrassment.

"What?" He turned to look at her, his gaze full of innocence.

"We should leave the food and go!" she hissed.  
"But then how will they know it's here, eh? No, we'll wait 'til they've finished, then knock to let them know it's outside the door."

Áinfean stared in horror at his suggestion as the moaning continued on the other side of the door.

"We'll do no such thing!" she whispered angrily at him.

Ruarc calmly settled himself on the floor; in the small hold that was cramped with cargo there was no place else to go. Áinfean had a fleeting thought of dragging him up to the captain's quarters to wait there, but then she decided that she felt safer being near her crew, even if said crew was otherwise occupied at the moment. Ruarc patted the floor next to him, but Áinfean stubbornly rewrapped her cloak about her body and leaned against the opposite wall, her gaze locked on the wood over Ruarc's head. Ruarc shrugged and leaned his head back against the wall to the crew's quarters.

The sounds continued unabated for an interminably long time. The thumping would stop, Áinfean and Ruarc would start to move as they heard creaking, and then a cry of passion would be followed by harder, faster pounding. In one promising bout of silence they suddenly heard the man cry out the name of Jesus in a most un-pious way; the woman's squeal was followed by a crashing and then the door began to vibrate to the rhythm of the couple's love-making. The door shook so violently that Áinfean was afraid the couple would break it down, spilling them in flagrante dilicto into the hold proper. Just when she thought the door could take no more, the woman let out a scream, the man let out a roar, and there was silence.

Áinfean moved quickly to the door as Ruarc rose; he grabbed her and clapped a hand over her mouth, making her struggle in panic before he whispered in her ear.

"Give them a moment. D'you want them to know we were here the whole time? Think of how embarrassed you'll all be."

Áinfean nodded, every muscle in her body still stiffened until he released her and she could move far away from him. They waited a few moments in silence. Ruarc moved toward her and she stiffened again, but then he turned and began clomping heavily toward the quarters. He knocked loudly on the door, hearing the sound of soft swearing and the slight metallic sound of a sword being drawn. He motioned Áinfean over with his head.

"Katy? Alonzo? It's Captain Murphy. I've brought food."

A thickly accented voice spoke from the other side of the door.

"Please leave it outside, Capitana. Grazi."

"Will you be all right?" Áinfean called, and Ruarc gave her a strange look.

"Thank you, Captain. We're fine. You should go back with the others," Katy called, giggling at the end.

Áinfean turned and fled the hold; it was all Ruarc could do to keep up.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you like! Please review to give me the good, the bad, and the horrible of what I've written.**


	4. Chapter 4: The Tempest

**Allan watched the lady captain disappear into the storm,** almost wishing he were the one going with her. She was a beauty, that was certain, with her sea-green eyes and her flaming red hair that had been trying to escape the leather band she had it wrapped in. She seemed quite comfortable handling a sword as well, and was confident enough to command others, including men. Not an ounce of extra fat seemed to be on her bones from what Allan could tell, and he wondered at how strong she must be to not get blown off her feet by the storm, considering her short stature. Thinking of the storm, he decided he was better off where he was, and settled for enjoying the view of her leaving instead.

He sighed as he thought to himself that although Captain Murphy was beautiful, he wouldn't trade her for Deirdre in a million years. Deirdre was meant for him, he knew that every night when they went to their bed and she fit so perfectly in his arms that he sometimes wondered how he had ever survived without her. He adored his wife, but there was no harm in looking, was there?

Allan felt the slap on the back of his head just after the door to the _Lia Fáil_ closed on the storm; he had been just about to turn and go find Deirdre to give her a kiss.

"Oi! What was that for?" He turned to glare at his wife, who was standing, hands on her hips, eyes shooting daggers at him. She spun on her heel and stomped into the kitchen, followed by her irate husband. Sniggers were heard from the other men in the crowd, but only _after_ Deirdre had disappeared behind the kitchen door. Allan thought about following her, pausing for a moment as he thought of all the knives that were in the kitchen. Frowning, he squared his shoulders and pushed through the door, ducking just in time as a bowl came flying at his head.

He heard a yelp behind him as one of their regulars moved too slowly. Allan stood back upright before marching into the kitchen.

"You've gone and done it now, you 'ave! You 'it Sean Brady on the 'ead!" he cried in indignation.

"It's your fault! That bowl was meant for you! If you hadn't ducked…"

"If I 'adn't ducked, I'd be finding Ruarc and tellin' 'im to lock up my crazy wife while I nursed my broken nose! As it is, Brady's gonna give Ruarc an earful when 'e gets back with that woman captain!"

"Oh, and you can't wait for that, can you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"  
"Don't pretend with me, Allan A' Dale! I saw you making eyes at that woman!"

"Well, I'm not blind, Deirdre!"

"Aye, but that could be arranged," Deirdre cried, grabbing a long filleting knife.

Allan moved in fast, disarming her easily and pushing her into a wall to keep her from escaping. She struggled a bit, and Allan found his body reacting to the feel of her body, warm and wiggling against him. She felt his arousal a moment before he crushed his mouth to hers. He tasted slightly of the mulled wine she kept for them in the kitchen, and also of brown bread.

Deirdre felt herself giving in, just as she always did when he kissed her, her body softening under his touch. She was still angry at him, but she felt her lips parting, her thighs opening to draw him closer. Allan's tongue danced over hers, but he never let up his grip on her wrists where he had them pinned to the wall. As he crushed his hips against her, Deirdre found herself getting more and more aroused by his show of strength and by her relative helplessness. She moaned against his mouth, pushing her body toward his, trying to rub herself on him to ease some of the tension. In answer, Allan chuckled, his warm breath feathering her mouth.

"Here now, what's this all about, eh luv?"

"I just want you, is all, Allan," she whispered back, lifting one leg to rub it up and down the back of his thigh.

Allan lifted an eyebrow in amusement as he placed his forehead on hers.

"Aye, well that's obvious," he replied wryly.

"Please, Allan!" she cried softly, her voice nearly drowned out by the storm. Her own emotions raged as strongly as that storm, whipping her body into a frenzy, rattling her nerves until all she could think of was relief. To her dismay, Allan chuckled once more, moving his lower body away while keeping her hands firmly against the wall.

"Deirdre, we've a roomful of guests just now, some what we don't know. What if they take it in mind to run out on their bills?"

A part of Allan was teasing her, but another was always afraid that their new existence and the stability it gave them, would disappear. Sure, he missed adventures, but he definitely enjoyed not having to worry about where his next meal would come from. To that end, Allan A' Dale ran his pub smoothly—never allowing the poor to go hungry, but never allowing the well-off to avoid their bills, either.

And while he wanted her—the evidence making itself painfully obvious between his legs—it would have to wait for now. That was when Deirdre shifted position, snaking her leg up between them to rub it against his erection. He moaned at the feel of her touching him—despite the layers of clothing they both wore, her touch sensitized him even further. His pants scraped painfully against his tender flesh and he groaned once more as she continued her assault, moving her head to kiss his chin and neck.

"Deirdre, we can't—we 'aven't time," he protested, his words sounding weak even to his own ears.

"Why, Mo Croi? Do you plan on taking a long time?" Deirdre whispered in his ear, tugging on an earlobe as she spoke.

"Lord no!" he responded, dropping his hands to untie his pants while Deirdre's released hands lifted her skirts and guided him to her center. She wrapped her legs around him as he pressed into her, eliciting moans from both of them. He kissed her mouth, deepening the kiss as he pushed deeper into her warm core as well. No words were spoken—none were needed—as he thrust in and out of her, his movements hard, fast, and fluid. Deirdre cried out as he filled her again and again, welcoming the violence of his strokes. She tangled her fingers in his chestnut hair, her own blonde tresses escaping the bun she kept it in with every stroke that slammed her into the wall. She closed her eyes in sheer bliss at the feel of him inside of her; when she opened them, his deep blue eyes met her lighter ones in a shared moment of passion.

Outside, the storm raged. Rain lashed the shuttered windows, and the wind rattled the back door like an angry husband locked outside. Thunder rumbled, shaking the land, and lightning lit up the dark night.

Inside, Deirdre mewled a protest as Allan pulled out of her, but then he dragged her to the floor, pushing her to her hands and knees. He roughly dragged her skirts out from beneath her knees and flipped them over her hips before he spread her legs and scooted up behind her on his own knees. Within a heartbeat or two, he was pushing against her slick entrance and then he surged forward, slamming his full length violently back inside of her. Deirdre groaned as Allan held her hips, continuing his assault until she could take it no more; she squeezed him tightly, pulling him over the edge with her, their cries drowned out by a loud crash of thunder.

Spent, Allan rolled to the side and lay on his back, breathing hard; Deirdre collapsed where she was. After a few moments, Allan tied his pants back up and turned to his wife, who looked for all the world like she had fallen asleep on the hard wooden floor. Gently, he pulled her skirts back down over her bottom.

"Deirdre?" His calloused hand stroked her soft cheek, lovingly tracing the line of her jaw.

"Mmm hmm," she replied noncommittally.

"Do you wanna tell me what's goin' on now?" he whispered in her ear, kissing her eyes and nose. Allan was constantly amazed by his feelings for Deirdre. After losing his mother soon after his brother's birth, and his father's subsequent violence, Allan had never thought to love someone, let alone to have them love him enough to be jealous over him.

Deirdre sighed and opened one eye to look over at her husband. The light from the fireplace was kind to his already handsome features, accenting the high eyebrows and luscious lashes that had half of the ladies in Malahide sighing when they saw him.

"I don't know what you mean." Genuine confusion sounded in her voice as she turned her body to look at him better; she had completely forgotten about her jealousy in the aftermath of their loving.

Allan pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head, inhaling the smell of her hair—bread, meat, and the herbs she used in her cooking. "The last time you got mad at me fer lookin' at another woman was near a year ago—d'you remember?"

"Oh, aye, I remember. I remember you looking at Miss Brighid Fionn like she hung the moon," Deirdre retorted smartly.

In spite of her renewed anger with him, she loved the feeling of his strong arms around her, holding her and comforting her. Even though they were now running a pub instead of running from the law, Allan still stayed fit—his arms were long and strong, his big hands calloused, his chest well-muscled, and despite her cooking, his stomach remained flat. Running the pub was hard work, and Allan continued to work out daily with his double swords when he could as well, an activity that attracted the young local women. Deirdre found that she was comforted by his body, even as she was irritated with others for seeming to want his comfort as well.

"I never did and you know it! Just because she wound up in my arms one night, cryin' 'er eyes out 'cause 'er dad put 'er out…"

"For bein' a harlot!"

"For bein' in love with Michael O'Shay," Allan argued. "And didn't they marry after that?"

"They did," Deirdre agreed, then grinned, tracing her finger along his chest and listening to his heartbeat—which had been slowing—speed up once more from her actions. "It _was_ a bit funny when she said she wanted to thank you for bein' there for her, since you reminded her so much of her da when he wasn't yelling at her."

Allan glowered. "_That _was not funny!" He pinched Deirdre's bottom and she yelped and giggled as she snuggled even closer to him.

"Everything was funny to me then—my morning sickness had stopped, and I was beginning to show with Jack."

"Speaking of Jack, that was the other time you was jealous, when you thought I wanted Will's Djaq instead o' you."

Deirdre chuckled. "I was pregnant with Tom then, and I…"

She stopped speaking as the realization hit them both at once. Deirdre raised her head to look at her husband, her wide blue eyes meeting his equally shocked gaze.

"I'm not bein' funny, luv, but you don't think you could be…I mean, you ain't…are you?"

Deirdre worried her lower lip with her teeth as she thought about the last time she had had her moon flow. She counted back the weeks and found them turning into a month, then more. She thought once more of how tired she had been of late, and of how her sense of smell seemed more acute than ever.

"I guess it could be. I'll call on the midwife tomorrow to be sure."

They looked at each other seriously for a moment before breaking into matching grins, their joy cut short by a banging on the door that led to the main room.

"Hey! Are you two done making up? You've a load o' hungry people out here, that're a wee bit afraid to come into the kitchen to serve themselves, and I ain't the owner no more, so I ain't takin' the chance, neither!" Mike's voice sounded indignant as he added, "If I'da known you two'd spend all yer time shaggin' and none makin' money, I'da sold the pub to someone else!" They knew Mike's grousing was mostly for show, and that the older man thought of them like the children he had never had.

Making their way to the door, they each took a deep breath before opening it to the rousing applause of their new friends. The O'Malley sisters were holding Tom and Jack, although holding Tom had become a chore since the boy had found out exactly what his feet were for. The A' Dales were once more enveloped by the warmth of the _Lia Fáil_ as they served their guests, waiting anxiously for Ruarc's return.

* * *

**A/N: Please review! I always look forward to your thoughts!**


	5. Chapter 5: A Hot Meal

As they had known it would be, the way back to the _Lia Fáil_ proved to be a Herculean task. Instead of pushing them toward their destination, the wind now held them in place or pushed them back toward the ship; every step was hard won. Rain pelted them in the face on the few occasions they looked up to judge their direction.

Ruarc had gallantly tried to take the lead, shielding Captain Murphy with his larger, stronger body, but she had refused to stay behind him. As a woman used to being in charge, following was not in her nature.

By the time they arrived back at the pub, things were quieting—the only customers were her crew and a few die-hards. The storm was abating as well, hence the outflow of people heading back to their homes. They walked in through the door to loud exclamations of relief from their friends.

"The two of you are soaked through to the skin!" Deirdre exclaimed, receiving a droll stare from Ruarc for her concern.

"Aye, it's raining a bit outside in case you didn't notice," he replied sarcastically. He barely backed away from the blow that was aimed at his head.

"You!" Deirdre pointed at him. "I want you out of those wet things right now. We need to get you warm and dry before you catch your death of cold!"

Ruarc waggled his eyebrows at Allan.

"D'ye hear the way she talks to me, A' Dale? She wants me!" Ruarc grinned at Allan as Deirdre began pulling clothes from his body, much to the admiration of the females of Áinfean's crew.

"Now 'old on a minute! Deirdre, you let us men take care of 'Lord' Ruarc. You and the women can go in the kitchen to get the captain dry. Unless you want _me_ to…"

Deirdre's warning glare cut Allan's speech short, and he grinned impishly at her. She looked at Áinfean, who hesitated a moment before marching off to the kitchen; the female crew followed, looking back wistfully over their shoulders at Ruarc as he stood by the fire with his shirt off, muscles gleaming in the dancing light.

Deirdre shook her head at Ruarc's obvious delight and her husband's gentle teasing. She turned and smacked Ruarc—hard—across his abdomen with the back of her hand, knocking the breath out of him and making him double over.

"Make sure you get him _completely_ dry, gentlemen," she commanded them. "Every last _little_ inch of him." She flounced off toward the kitchen with that, leaving the men to their work.

The men wrinkled their noses at Ruarc, who returned the looks of disgust aimed his way with a frown. He could not resist a parting shot, though, once he had gained his breath back.

"Aye, and make sure you do the same to the captain for me, eh?"

Deirdre's hesitation was slight, and only Ruarc—who had been expecting it—and Allan—who knew her so well—even noticed it.

Ruarc—ever ready to pull a prank—spread his arms wide, deciding to enjoy his companions' discomfort now that he had recovered from his own.

"Well lads, you heard the lady! Dry me off good!"

Various mutterings of "gotta get home to the little woman" were heard from men who came to the pub specifically to escape their wives, and before long, Allan and Ruarc were standing there alone before the fire, eyeing each other warily. Áinfean's crew had gravitated toward the kitchen, the better to stay close to the women, and their captain in particular.

"Don't even look at me, mate!" Allan shook his head, eyebrows raised, as he tossed Ruarc a towel. "I ain't goin' anywhere near any of your inches. I seen enough of 'em at Prince John's castle before we left England. I'd rather deal with Deirdre's wrath, if it's all the same to you." Allan crossed his arms and turned his back, stubbornly facing the kitchen door.

Ruarc grinned and shrugged, quickly shucking out of his wet things and drying off with the towel.

"So what am I to put on, anyway?"

Allan's back stiffened at Ruarc's question. He moved to the kitchen door and knocked.

"Deirdre? What's Ruarc gonna wear?"

In answer, the door opened a crack and Deirdre's arm shot through the small opening with a bundle of cloth before she slammed the door closed once more. Allan walked over to Ruarc, wondering what clothes Deirdre had found on such short notice. With a start, he realized they were his.

"You can't be serious!" he shouted at the closed door. "These'll never fit 'im!"

Ruarc eyed the clothes, taking them from Allan's hands. As he held them up to inspect them, the towel fell and Allan turned away in disgust.

"You're right, A' Dale," he responded before raising his voice. "These pants are way too small, especially in the crotch!" Ruarc practically shouted the last part, to the delighted grins of the men by the kitchen. Giggles could be heard from the other side of the door. One of the young men seemed a bit too interested in Ruarc's endowments however, which had Ruarc hopping on one leg to put on the pants quickly—too small or no.

Before long, Ruarc was warm and dry, and sitting at a table with the men, waiting for the women to come out of the kitchen; when they did, it was with warm mead. Deirdre carried bread and stew for Ruarc and Áinfean. Once they were settled and eating, Deirdre began asking questions.

"So what brings you to our little village?" Deirdre looked at Áinfean expectantly. She sipped from her mead as she waited for the woman captain to finish chewing and answer the question.

Áinfean swallowed the stew, grateful for its warmth; she was pleasantly surprised at how good it was, as well—lamb, vegetables, and a hint of spices in the gravy had her almost groaning in pleasure and considering kidnapping the pub mistress if this was how good all of the woman's cooking was.

Áinfean glanced at the door over her left shoulder. "Did you notice the storm?"

Deirdre nodded, narrowing her eyes. So this was how the captain wanted to play it.

"Were you on your way to somewhere in particular or from somewhere?"

"Isn't everyone?" the captain answered vaguely once more.

Áinfean began to suspect that the mistress would be like a dog with a bone, and ate quickly.

"This stew is quite good," Áinfean complimented Deirdre, hoping to distract her.

"Thank you. Where were you coming from?"

Áinfean sighed, realizing that her initial suspicions were correct, and the mistress—Deirdre, if she remembered correctly—would not easily be distracted.

Áinfean tore off a bit of bread, chewing it thoughtfully and swallowing it before doing the same with another spoonful of stew.

Across the table, Ruarc glared at Deirdre. Before Áinfean could begin questioning Deirdre in return, Ruarc spoke.

"Deirdre, leave the woman be! Can you not see she's half starved?"

"Ruarc O'Brian! Since when did it become a crime for me to find out who's supping at my table?"

Ruarc rose from the table and stalked around to where Deirdre sat on the end. He hovered over her ominously; another woman—another person—would have been intimidated. Another person would have risen and followed Ruarc at his unspoken command. Since Deirdre was not another person, Ruarc grabbed her arm and hauled her up and into the kitchen, closing the door behind them.

"All I'm sayin' is, give the woman some peace to eat," he began as he turned to face her. "I've spent a bit of time with her tonight, and I can tell you, we're in no immediate danger."

"Would you stake your life on that?"

Ruarc nodded.

"How about mine? Allan's? Your godsons'?"

Ruarc sighed.

"Deirdre, what is this about?"

"I can't be curious about a stranger who shows up on my doorstep in the middle of a stormy night?"

"Curious, yes—rude, no. You run a pub, Deirdre. Strangers are going to show up on your doorstep now and again, sometimes even in the middle of a storm, sometimes with pasts they don't want to discuss in public. Most of them are innocent, just passing through."

"And what of those that aren't innocent?"

"Deirdre, she handed over her weapons when we asked."

"She hesitated," Deirdre added stubbornly.

"And wouldn't you have done the same in a strange place under a strange roof?" Ruarc was becoming irate with Deirdre's continued suspicion.

"What is this really about?" Ruarc saw the hesitation in her eyes as he asked the question, and jumped to an obvious conclusion.

"Was Allan giving the woman the once-over?"

"And what if he was?" Deirdre retorted belligerently.

"Deirdre, you can't blame him for looking—she's gorgeous. And you can't blame her for being gorgeous any more than you can be blamed."

"What are you on about?" Deirdre eyed him suspiciously. Once, she had known her power over men—it had been obvious in their stares, in the way she could feel their eyes follow her wherever she went. Now, she was tired all the time, her body was ravaged by the birth of two children, and she no longer felt the admiration of the opposite sex.

Ruarc looked at her, standing there uncertainly, and wondered what had happened to the woman he had known—the brave, confident woman who could make a man weep for knowing she was already married. She was still beautiful, though. Her blonde hair was escaping the bun she kept it in to keep it out of the food, and little wisps of it trailed along her cheek and down her back; her eyes were dull from lack of sleep, but still a deep blue, her features a bit pinched. He took her red, work-worn hands in his, lovingly tracing the lines in them, and noted that her body had plumped up a bit—a product of childbearing, no doubt, and made her all the more beautiful to him. A part of him still wished that she could have been his, that her body would have been changed by the children she had given _him_; he imagined a small part of him would always feel this way.

"Have you no idea how beautiful you are, Deirdre?"

She eyed him in consternation, and Ruarc didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Do you honestly think that all the men who come in from the village come just for the food? Not that it's not the best this side of heaven," he added quickly at her black look. "They come here to watch you flit from table to table, to see your smile, and hear the soft dulcet tones of your voice" –he knew he was stretching it with that statement—"and that lovely lilt when you sing." _That last bit was more true, at least._

Deirdre pulled her hands from his and smacked Ruarc lightly on the chest, grinning sheepishly at him.

"Your tongue is as silver as ever, do you know that, Ruarc O'Brian?"

"I am telling the God's honest truth, Deirdre. To this day, if I thought you'd run away with me, I'd steal you from that ungrateful husband of yours, d'ye know that? I also know I've distracted you long enough to let your guest finish eating. Mind, my own food is cold by now…"

"And you deserve it, you great, lumbering idiot!" Deirdre wanted to be angry with him, but she couldn't be, particularly in the face of his earnest admission. Ruarc leaned down and kissed her—a light kiss of friendship placed gently on her lips just as the door opened.

"Now that's enough of that, O'Brian! 'ow many times do I 'ave to tell you, she's mine?" Grinning, Allan pulled his wife to him for a deep kiss that left her breathless. Allan had long since gotten over his jealousy of Ruarc; he knew his wife adored the other man, but only in a brotherly way, and so he put up with their displays of affection. He felt Deirdre's mouth open for him, her breathing becoming once more ragged, her nipples hardening against his chest, and knew that he was the only one she loved the way a woman loves a man.

"Let's go to bed, Deirdre," Allan whispered raggedly against her mouth. "Ruarc'll see to our guests, won't you, Ruarc?"

O'Brian nodded, grinning ruefully as he watched the couple head up the stairs. He gathered himself, thinking of ice and the time he had caught his parents making love to calm the raging erection that holding Deirdre still gave him, before he opened the door and went out to see to Captain Murphy and her crew.

* * *

Guy rode his stallion along the North Road, flanked by a dozen of his men—he had wanted to bring half as many, but Addy had been insistent. They were approaching Sherwood Forest, and despite his bold words to his wife, he felt a frisson of uneasiness course through his body. The forest was dark, the trees close-packed, with bushes crowding the road that traveled through it. Many of the branches were bare, and Guy knew from past experience that the wind going through those branches would sound eerie. It didn't help that night was approaching, making many of his men nervous; nervous guards were more of a liability than a help. Guy was loathe to make camp so close to Locksley though, and turned to give an encouraging smile to the men.

"We are nearly there. We will push on, and be in Locksley shortly after dark, where we can sleep in shelters for the night instead of in the open."

The men knew that their lord would sleep comfortably, while they would wind up staying warm by huddling together in the barn, and eyed the forest warily. They had no desire to ride through _any _wood at night, let alone the one that housed so many outlaws, including Robin Hood. Besides, everyone knew that the forest came alive with restless spirits after dark, particularly this close to the end of the year. Although they were all Christian men, they knew that paganism still thrived, and it was nearing Samhain, the time for closing out the old year, and the time when the veil between the worlds was thinnest. That being said, they had no desire to anger their lord. Sir Guy had definitely mellowed in the last two years, but he still would not brook any disobedience from either his men or his wife. The horses pranced underneath the men's legs, as the humans transferred their nervousness to the beasts. Rolling his eyes at his men, Guy turned his own stallion and kneed him toward the trees confidently, ignoring the slight fear that still hovered at the back of his brain.

* * *

Robin and the gang had settled into the camp for the night when Will came running up, having been out collecting wood for the fires. Robin had moved the gang from the ridge camp when a severe summer storm had all but flooded it out, and the others now lived in cabins similar to that of Will and Djaq's. The houses were collectively referred to as "the camp" regardless of the fact that they were warmer and dryer than most peasants' hovels. As the other married couple, Robin and Marian naturally shared one of the other dwellings, while Much muttered unhappily about being stuck in a cabin with Little John.

"Gisbourne's back! He's on the road headed toward Locksley!" the young man cried.

"What?" Robin shot to his feet from where he had been sitting by the central fire they lit to share their meals and enjoy each other's company before going off to their individual cabins.

"He's on the road with a dozen men!"

"What of his wife?" Robin asked, not sure he wanted to deal with the cagey Lady Adelaide.

Will shook his head. "I didn't see her. It was only Gisbourne and some guards."

Robin narrowed his eyes as he looked up at the darkening sky. Darkness meant his people stood a better chance of hurting themselves due to their inability to see anything, but it would also give them better cover from Gisbourne and his men.

"Well, ladies and gents, shall we go see what the Lord of Mablethorpe is doing around here again?"

The others nodded, grabbing their weapons as Much sighed, removing the food from over the fire and carefully banking it. His stew would be ruined, he just knew it would.


	6. Chapter 6: The Best Defense

The road was darkening quickly in the close confines of the trees, but Guy would spare no thought for regret. He rode his stallion with confidence, pulling his men away from their fear with his own utter lack thereof. He wanted to ride faster, but knew it would put the men and the horses in danger since the road was becoming difficult to see. His sergeant rode up beside him.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Sir Guy, but d'ye think we should stop an' make torches? I've got me tinder box."

Guy glanced at his sergeant in disdain.

"In the time it would take us to stop and make torches, we could be in Locksley." He glanced around at the trees, and the dark shadows in between them. "Besides, which of your men is going to go fetch branches without pissing themselves? No, we go on."

A voice came from the darkness in front of them, familiar in its arrogance, definitely _not_ one of his men.

"Not now, you don't, not without an explanation, and a donation!"

Guy ground his teeth at Robin Hood's words. _Of all the ill luck! _

"What do you want, Hood?"

"I just told you, didn't I?" Robin swaggered forward into the range of their eyesight, closely flanked by his "men", a small group that included two women—the Saracen, and…Marian. Guy wondered how long it would be before he could see her without feeling the pain of her manipulations of him. He no longer wanted Marian of Knighton Hall—he had Addy to thank for that—but the pain he felt as he remembered the way she had used him, playing him for a fool, that remained, tearing at his stomach like acid. Now she stood behind Robin and off to his right a bit, her bow raised, arrow pointed at his sergeant.

"Let us pass, Hood. We have business to attend to." Guy's voice was full of the command that a man of his station was used to wielding.

"What sort of business?" Robin asked, tilting his head and staring Guy straight in the eye despite the fact that Guy was mounted.

"Tax business, if you must know," Guy responded, his voice hardening with his frustration at being stopped. He knew it would be foolish to fight, despite their greater numbers since dark was closing in quickly and Hood and his gang knew the forest, and had likely set traps nearby.

Robin tutted. "Dirty business that. Taxes."

"I don't argue that it is, but it is also the duty of every man to pay his share."

"And do you pay your share, Gisbourne? Do you work for it like the people you bleed it out of?"

Guy thought of all the long days in the fields at Mablethorpe, and knew he was being truthful when he replied, "Not that it's any of your business, but I do. I work harder than you do, Hood, playing hide and seek in the forest, stealing from honest men. Now let me pass so that I can see to my lands in Locksley."

"Your lands?" Robin nearly shouted. "You speak of stealing! You stole Locksley from me!"

"You forfeited those lands when you chose to take the law into your own hands, and freed those criminals!"

"I notice you had one of those 'criminals' in your hands many times, and yet you never hung him; in fact, you chose to hire him as a spy instead, then later as your 'man'. So don't preach to me, Gisbourne."

"Robin!" Marian's voice was sharp, reminding him of why they were here.

"But there's no sense arguing, is there? Give us what you've got, and we'll let you go."

"And when I get to Locksley, do you think I will not need to recoup my losses? Would you really punish the villagers that way? I think you'll let us pass, Hood."

Robin hesitated, seeming to weigh his options, then stepped aside, unblocking Guy's path.

"Robin!" Little John hissed.

"Stand down," Robin ordered them, motioning the gang to clear the road as well. "For now," he added at Guy's mocking sneer.

Guy could hear the whispered arguments behind him as he and his men began to move off once more. He smiled to himself and shook his head, thinking of how proud Addy would be that he had argued his way out instead of fighting; he really was losing his edge.

* * *

Áinfean had gone to bed edgy, but exhausted, and had soon fallen asleep, although her dreams had been anything but calming, making her sleep completely un-restorative. Grumpily, she climbed out of the warm bed, quickly donning the clothes she had slept beside to keep them warm and slipping on her boots before she put her feet on the chilly wooden floor. She was embarrassed to find that she was alone in the bed—that fact and the sound of voices below let her know that her crew was up before her.

There were four guest rooms in the _Lia Fáil_ and Áinfean's crew had taken two of them—one for the women and one for the men. Áinfean jerked open the door and was immediately assailed by the warmth and the smell of bacon, eggs, and freshly baked bread; her stomach rumbled in response, her mind bringing her back for a moment to her childhood, and her mother's fine cooking. She had tried to learn from her mother so that she would make a fine wife one day, but she had no talent for working with food. Her mother had laughingly told Áinfean that they had better find a rich man or a man with no sense of taste to marry her. Áinfean felt her heart contract at the memory—she missed her mother and little sister every day. She knew they were better off without her, but with the life she led, with the things she had done and the things she continued to do, to keep them safe and provided for, there was no way that she could visit them; she had not the heart to see the disappointment in their eyes. Áinfean plastered a smile on her face and descended the stairs to join the others for breakfast.

Her crew greeted her, as did the pub master, Allan A' Dale; Áinfean assumed the man's wife was in cooking. As Allan opened the door to go fetch another breakfast plate, a loud burp was heard; everyone laughed as Deirdre walked out with the culprit on her shoulder.

"Jack has his father's manners, I'm afraid," Deirdre joked, the love in her eyes palpable.

Áinfean's newest crewman, Gustave, raked his eyes boldly over the pub mistress, and Áinfean shivered. She had seen that look in men's eyes too many times—the look that said that they saw you without your clothes on, and were thinking of all the things they were going to do to you if they ever really got the chance to have you naked.

"In France, when a man burps, it means his meal was most excellent." Gustave spoke slowly, his avid gaze coming to rest on Deirdre's breasts; he licked his lips as he continued to stare until Allan came back from the kitchen.

Áinfean saw the fury and shock on Deirdre's face and was confused by it. Surely, as the only woman working here, she had been approached on more than one occasion by a man trying to scope out the exact nature of her duties at the pub? It was not unheard of for a pub mistress to also be the pub whore for enough extra silver, and their husbands were as often as not their pimps. It had been that way with the first pub man she had known; not only his wife, but his children as well had been for sale for the right price—both the boys and the girls, with age not being a guarantee of safety.

Áinfean thanked Allan for the food as he placed it before her, and watched out of the corner of her eye as Deirdre once more disappeared into the kitchen. Once Allan was sure everyone was settled, he went outside to assess the damages to the pub and the barn. Gustave rose as soon as the front door closed and began to make his way to the kitchen, stopped momentarily by his captain's voice.

"Gustave! Do not force her," Áinfean admonished. At the black look he turned her way, she added, "We have need of these people yet, and no means for a quick escape. Use caution. That's an order."

Gustave rolled his eyes and continued on and into the kitchen, where a fine sight greeted his eyes—the lady of the place bent over before the fire, stirring something in a pot. Slowly he snuck up behind her, opening his pants as he went. He knew he would have to be quick—one hand to cover her mouth, the other to lift her skirts, while he used his body to push her toward the fireplace, ensuring that she would not try to get away from him since the alternative would mean falling into the fire. He stroked his erection and licked his lips in anticipation. When he struck, it was quickly. His right hand covered her mouth, his left lifted her skirts. He could almost feel the soft warmth of her enveloping him and imagined what it would feel like to soon be thrusting into her; he was sure that once he was buried inside of her, she would welcome him. Women loved the chase, and always played hard to get, but once they had a man stroking inside of them, they all turned into wanton whores. He pushed his hips forward, expecting to feel the softness of her lips enveloping his cock; instead, something hard and red-hot greeted his initial thrust. He cried out, the sound like a bann-sidhe—high pitched and blood-curdling—as he jumped back.

Deirdre turned, the metal spoon she had been stirring the soup with in her hand. She had been so angry over the little Frenchman's comment in the other room that she had not been paying attention, figuring it was Allan who had entered the kitchen behind her. By the time she had realized it was not Allan, it had been too late to move; she had done the only thing she could, and quickly dipped the spoon into the fire, waiting for the man to pull up her skirts so that she could slip the spoon between her legs to give him a surprise; she knew a fight at that point would have meant falling into the fire or the stew or both. She had gritted her teeth as the heat had scalded the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, and knew she would be putting salve there for a few days, but her pain was nothing compared to the sailor's.

Even now, he rolled on the floor, clutching himself and writhing in pain as the rest of Captain Murphy's crew, including the captain herself, came running in from the dining area; Allan burst through the back door. The scream had awakened the boys, who were caterwauling in their bassinets. Deirdre dropped the spoon and bent to retrieve her sons, holding them to her to comfort them. Her skirt was still partially up, fibers having caught on the belt at her waist, but Deirdre's only thought was comforting her children. Áinfean, who had been the first to enter the kitchen, reached over and pulled the skirt back down, and Deirdre gave her a small smile of appreciation.

Allan took in the scene, noting the man writhing on the floor clutching his manhood, Deirdre standing with her skirt up, exposing her legs on the side and back, and his eyes filled with rage. Allan reached down to haul Gustave to his feet and Áinfean's crewmen moved to help their mate, but were stopped by the captain's voice.

"Leave him. He disobeyed a direct order. Any punishment he gets is well deserved."

Allan threw the hapless man against the back wall—ironically, the very wall where he himself had taken Deirdre the night before. The man's penis was no longer hard, but was beginning to swell at the tip as it flopped against the front of his pants.

"What did you do to my wife, you smarmy bastard?" Allan's rage was written all over his face, his lips contorted, his teeth gritted, barely allowing the words to escape.

The man whimpered, trying to cover his wounded phallus. He cried out as his hands bumped the reddening tip when Allan slammed him once more into the wall.

"I asked you a question, you filthy piece of slug shit!"

"I…I…I thought she was giving me the eye. I thought she wanted me to follow her in here." Gustave's eyes were filled with pain, but Allan didn't care. He had fought too long and too hard to have a family once more after years of being alone. No one hurt his wife. No one. He lifted the sailor up by the collar, throwing him through the open door, where a crowd had begun to gather.

Deirdre, Áinfean, and the rest of the crew followed, watching as Allan hauled Gustave up once more, only to land a right to his jaw that had the crowd gasping. The Allan A' Dale they knew was a kind, genial man, with a good sense of humor and a loving eye for his family. This was someone entirely different. This was a warrior bent on destroying his opponent. The people who had gathered did not know what the other man had done to earn Allan's wrath, but they formed a wide and respectful circle as they watched Allan give the man what they imagined _must_ be a well-deserved beating.

Allan jumped on Gustave's chest, pummeling the man with his fist. Gustave tried to shield his face, and then to fight back, but his center was too wracked with pain, every nerve ending still feeling the fire of the metal spoon. Finally, Deirdre felt that Allan had given the man more than enough. She handed the babies to the O'Malley sisters, who lived next door and had been one of the first to arrive, before she stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on Allan's bunched shoulder. Allan nearly turned on her, so wrapped up was he in his fury, but the light of battle died instantly as he looked into her soft blue eyes.

"He's had enough, Allan."

Allan's nostrils pinched, his lip twitching in anger as he tried to calm himself enough to speak to his wife.

"'e ain't dead yet, Deirdre."

"Which is exactly why you have to stop, Mo Croi." Deirdre's soft voice and her use of her pet name for him finally reached through the black rage that enveloped his brain.

Deirdre pulled her husband from the sailor's chest and wrapped him in a gentle hug, shushing him as his eyes began to fill with tears.

"Deirdre, 'e didn't…I mean…did 'e?"

"No, Allan. He caught me by surprise. He got my skirts up, but I took the spoon I had been using in the stew and stuck it into the fire for a moment before putting it up between my legs. He was a bit surprised." She grinned and Allan placed his forehead on hers, as those closest to them who had overheard her gasped, the men cupping themselves in empathy. They had always kept their hands to themselves as a courtesy, out of respect for the woman and her station—now there was a healthy dose of fear added to that respect.

Gustave rose painfully to his feet, his hands on his knees. He tucked himself back into his pants and closed them once more. His attack was sudden and vicious and aimed for Allan's back. The knife stopped just short of Allan's ribs as two small feet—the right feet of Deirdre and Áinfean—met the Frenchman's chest, shoving him back into the arms of Ruarc, who had just arrived, having heard about the commotion while at his stables.

"What's going on here?" he demanded in his best "lord of the manor" voice.

Sarah O'Malley spoke up as she bounced the energetic Tom in her arms. "That man there," she pointed with her chin to the man standing in front of Ruarc, "tried to force Mistress A' Dale."

"Force her?" Ruarc's brows drew down in confusion for a moment, then it dawned on him what young Sarah meant, and his face contorted into a rage that matched that of Allan's from a few moments before. He reached for the man, who cowered but was not quick enough to move due to his injuries. The knife was wrenched with seemingly no effort from Gustave's grip and he found himself on the ground once more being pummeled until Deirdre moved in to stop Ruarc. Allan stood back watching in satisfaction as more blood flew, and a tooth that had been loosened from his own fists, finally came out to make an arc through the air before landing in the mud of the back yard.

"Ruarc!" Deirdre called, desperately trying to stop her friend's strong arm from its relentless rise and fall.

"Lord Ruarc!" Áinfean stood before him, then crouched down, catching his fist before it could connect one more time with Gustave's face.

Ruarc looked up at her, his features still twisted with rage, and with a pain that she did not understand; the man wore the expression one would expect on Deirdre's husband, and then only if the violation had not been stopped before it happened.

Ruarc looked up into the soft green eyes of Captain Murphy—the way the sunlight framed her flaming red hair made the loose strands look like a halo around her head, despite the fact that most of the hair was tied back on her neck. Looking at her, he felt his rage begin to subside, but not the pain. He was responsible for Deirdre's safety—not only had he promised her father that he would keep her safe over fifteen years prior, but he had also recently promised her husband the same for the both of them. Now, here she was in _his_ rath, and some man had nearly violated her. What galled him most was that she had had to protect herself, that he had not been there to do it for her. Slowly, he rose to stand above the piece of scum that had tried to lay his hands on her. He turned to ask Deirdre if she was all right, but turned back to kick the man one more time for good measure first.

"Take your crewman…" he began.

"He's no longer a member of my crew," Áinfean cut in.

"I don't care. Whatever he is, he is no longer welcome in my rath. Make sure he removes himself. If I see him again—ever—he is a dead man." Ruarc's voice was hard, his eyes slitted with fury.

Áinfean hauled Gustave to his feet, dragging him by his ear away from the crowd, followed by her crew. Gustave whimpered as they walked, the rough cloth of his pants scraping him painfully. Once they were out of earshot, she cuffed Gustave once more herself, adding to his already extensive head injuries.

"You great big oaf! Thinking with that little twig between your legs again! You could've ruined everything! And on top of that, Mistress A' Dale seems like a decent woman…"

"You knew I was going in there!"

"I told you not to violate her. I thought that perhaps you were listening to a direct order from your captain, and that you were going to try to charm her. You're a handsome enough man and with your ways, most women fall into your bed, be they married or not. Yet you just had to have this woman at that very instant!"

"Captain, I…"

"No! I'll not listen, Gustave. You take your sorry hide out of here and don't you ever let me clap eyes on you again. Cameron will see you to the ship to collect your things."

"But Captain, where will I go?"

"I. Don't. Care. Just be gone from here as quick as a thought, or I'll let the lord of this place and the pub man at you again—perhaps I'll let them hold you while the mistress comes at you with her spoon again."

The men paled at her words, particularly Gustave, whose member still throbbed from the burn of the scorching metal; the women sniggered. Gustave turned and limped morosely for the ship, flanked by Cameron.


	7. Chapter 7: Proactive

Guy rode into Locksley well after dark flanked by his guards. Darkness had begun to fall as they had left the outlaws and so Guy had allowed his men to make a quick search for good bits of wood with which to make torches. Without their light, he would have had to stop in Sherwood for the night. Ever efficient, Thornton must have seen the torches and realized that company was on its way. As Guy entered the courtyard to Locksley Manor, Thornton opened the door and stepped out into the night bearing his own torch. Guy could smell roasting meat and his stomach rumbled in appreciation.

"Sir Guy," Thornton greeted him, seemingly unsurprised. But then, Guy knew, it took a lot to ruffle the older man's feathers. Thornton was one of the few peasants that Guy respected, and he had even sought the old man's advice before his curtailed wedding to Marian. Guy inclined his head slightly before dismounting, making it look to the others like he had been simply leaning forward, but he knew Thornton would know the respect he had just been shown by his master. Guy turned to face the squire and the manor.

"Thornton," Guy returned. "I apologize for our late arrival. We were…waylaid in the forest."

Thornton looked thoughtful, but did not respond to this, instead choosing to direct the men to their comfort.

"Cook has a stew heating. Had we known when to expect you, we would have had a proper meal."

Guy smiled, knowing that the old man had couched an admonition with the apology; he knew he should have sent a man on ahead, but then the whole "waylaid in the forest" thing had happened, and it had seemed best to just push on.

"Stew will be fine, Thornton," Guy replied, handing his reins to a sleepy stableboy and entering the manor. He ducked to make it under the lintel, rising to his full height once he was inside. The main room of the manor was awash in candlelight; the table set with the best of the silver—place-settings for two, Guy noticed with wry amusement and a touch of sadness. It had only been a few days, but Guy missed Addy already. Thornton followed Guy in, having given his torch to one of the guards.

"Might I ask where the Lady Gisbourne is?" he asked obsequiously.

"Lady Gisbourne stays home with our child," Guy answered shortly, trying to keep the emotion from his voice.

"Wonderful news, My Lord. Congratulations!"

A small, shy smile touched Gisbourne's lips at the unusual show of joy. Guy never expected such warm feeling from others.

Thornton clapped his hands together, his face lighting up as he turned to see to the master's supper. He had noted a difference in Sir Guy when he had last visited with his new wife. Sir Guy the married man, Lord of not only Locksley, but of Mablethorpe, was far gentler, far kinder than he had been previously as the sheriff's minion. Thornton was not happy with the way Sir Guy had been before, but being closer to power than the average villager gave him some insight into what motivated the nobility; sometimes, the nobility had even fewer choices than the poor.

Thornton also knew what Guy had lost so many years before, when his father had returned from the Holy Land, not a hero, but a pariah, scarred by leprosy and an unfaithful wife. Then the manor had caught fire and Guy had been blamed—had blamed himself—for Ghislaine of Gisbourne's subsequent death. The teen-aged Guy had left Locksley as the only supporter for his younger sister, who was barely out of toddler-hood; he had left carrying guilt for the death of his parents as well. Thornton had felt terrible for the teen-ager at the time, but there had been nothing he could do. When Sir Guy of Gisbourne had returned nearly twenty years later, he had been a man eaten up by a hard life, full of bitter disappointments; a man who was forced to answer to Vasey, the new sheriff of Nottingham.

In his capacity as Vasey's second in command, Guy had done many cruel things, but on the day he was to wed Marian, he had seemed as uncertain as any other bridegroom. That uncertainty, that touch of humanity, was what gave Thornton hope that one day, if Sir Robin was not to be re-installed as Lord of Locksley, Sir Guy could become a fair and just master. He had seen it when Lord Gisbourne had been at Locksley with Lady Adelaide—the way he would, just occasionally, smile or laugh with real humor instead of with a touch of evil. Mind, Thornton was intelligent enough not to rely on Sir Guy being kind, and was always on alert lest he or one of the other servants or villagers displease the master in any way. Thornton smiled in genuine joy for the master and his lovely wife as he placed Sir Guy's stew on the table for him.

* * *

Guy slept fitfully that night, missing his wife by his side. His body had grown accustomed to the feel of hers next to it in a bed. On the road, Guy's longing had not been so bad since they had made their beds on the rough ground each night. Now, though, in the relative luxury of Locksley Manor, Guy's body yearned for his Addy.

Finally, unable to handle the restlessness of waiting for elusive sleep, Guy rose and lit the bedside candles, dressing in the cold room by their feeble light. Taking up one of the fatter candles, Guy made his way carefully down the shadowed steps to the main hall. The staff was still abed, since it was hours before cock-crow yet.

Guy moved to the small bedroom off the main hall—it was used not only to house guests, but also to store the manor's books in a locked box to the left of the door. In case of fire, the books detailing the manor's finances could be retrieved and saved quickly since they were stored all together and on the ground floor.

Guy placed the candle on the table in the room and drew out his keys—Thornton had the only other set, and as the reeve of the manor, was responsible for keeping the books in Guy's absence. Carefully, Guy turned the key in the lock, listening to the tumblers click as they opened, the sound seeming loud in the quiet manor. He drew out the leather-bound book and closed the lid before putting away his keys, grabbing the candle, and once more making his way to the main room. There, he lit the candles in the sconce by the door, lifting it and setting it beside him at the table so he could better read Thornton's entries of the last few months. As with everything associated with the reeve, Thornton's handwriting was neat and deliberate. Despite the darkness, Guy found the accounts easy to read. In his absence, Thornton had run Locksley efficiently. Guy smiled, thinking of how one day he would present Locksley to Roger, and if Thornton kept up this sort of management, Roger would have a tidy income from his new manor. He found it ironic that only a year or so ago, he would have been displeased with the income; after all of his hard work at Mablethorpe, and with Addy's gentle influence, he found himself well pleased instead. It was unfortunate, he thought, that the sheriff would not share his viewpoint, and he would likely have to use some of the money he had brought from Mablethorpe to make up the difference on his taxes. Guy frowned and rubbed his forehead against the head-ache that was threatening to erupt across his skull. Addy would have rubbed his back and his head for him, and then kissed him until he forgot that troubles even existed. He decided then and there that he would meet the sheriff as soon as possible to settle the taxes. The sooner he paid his taxes in Nottingham and returned home to Addy, the better he would feel.

* * *

Deidre made her way to the cottage of the midwife in the relative warmth of mid-morning. The sun was out now and all around the rath, people were mending homes and fences and barns, taking stock of what damage had been done from the storm, what livestock were hurt or killed. Allan and Ruarc strode beside her, flanking her; neither man was willing to let her out of their sight at the moment and walked by her side with the grim expressions of body guards. Deirdre had rolled her eyes at their foolishness, but both men had been unrelenting in their protectiveness. At the midwife's home, the men had knocked, Ruarc entering before Deirdre, then waiting outside with Allan when the midwife had shooed him out the door.

"What's the story with those two?" Marga O'Brennan grinned at Deirdre, who returned the old woman's smile. Marga was old enough to have attended the births of nearly every resident of Malahide; her husband had died more than a dozen years before and she could still be seen at his grave daily, laying fresh flowers and speaking to him about this and that. Between her eccentricities and her herbal knowledge, most people would have labeled Marga a witch, but since she had birthed most of them, they chose to ignore the "signs" and treated her with a great deal of respect instead. Marga's daughter, Meara, was her assistant and would take over as midwife once the old woman passed on. These days, it was mostly Meara anyway who did the actual midwifing duties, with her mother attending as more of a consultant since her eyesight was beginning to fail along with her strength.

"They have appointed themselves my bodyguards, Mother" Deirdre responded, giving the old woman her title of respect. She touched the back of her hand to her forehead and bowed low as well. While Deirdre was a good Christian, she was also a good Celt and gave respect to the old ways and the old days.

"And why would you need bodyguards, Mistress A' Dale?" the old woman asked as her daughter entered the cottage. Meara O'Donnell decided to answer for Deirdre as Deirdre rose from her bow.

"That's a good question, Mother, since it seems Mistress A' Dale can well take care of herself." Meara grinned in admiration at Deirdre, who flushed and looked to her feet.

"What's happened?" Marga asked impatiently.

"It seems one of the lady's guests decided to force himself on her."

"No! Is that why you are here, my dear—to expel a possible child? I have the seeds right here. They are bitter and a bit greasy, but at least you and your good husband will not have to raise a by-blow."

Deirdre raised her head swiftly, the disgust clear in her voice.

"No! He was…unable to complete the deal."

Meara was almost doubled over with mirth. "She struck him with a fire-heated metal spoon before he could 'strike' her."

"I don't understand. Did the man get up into you or not?"

"No," Deirdre responded. "He was about to, but I put the spoon in the way of his intended target, and…"

Marga inhaled sharply. "Are you hurt, lass? Did you burn yerself?"

Deirdre grinned sheepishly. "A bit, but not as bad as I burned him."

Marga's sudden bark of laughter filled the cottage with its infectious sound and soon all three of the women were laughing so hard they could not stand.

"You should have heard him, Mum," Meara said when she could speak once more. "Screamed like a ban-sidhe, he did."

Marga wiped the tears from her eyes. "I'll just bet he did. I imagine there'll be no man for miles around would consider trying to force our little friend from this day on."

Deirdre shrugged, her smile crooked, her eyes downcast at the respect in the other women's voices.

"It happened so quick, it was all I could think to do," Deirdre responded self-consciously.

"Aye, and quick thinking it was, too! Now, up on the table, let's have a look at ye." Marga indicated a table near the fire and Deirdre hopped up.

"Lift yer skirts, lass. How'm I to see how burned ye are if ye don't?"

Deirdre raised her skirts so the old midwife could see her inner thighs.

"Ah, it's not so bad. Spread some of this on it," she continued, reaching for a jar of ointment.

"Twice per day--morning and evening, and it'll be clear in a few days."

"Thank you, Mother," Deirdre replied respectfully, lowering her skirts and taking the salve. "I have another reason for coming, though."

"Oh, and that would be…"

"I think I might be with child."

Marga lowered her brows in consternation. "I thought ye said the man never made it into ye!"

"_He_ didn't. But I _am_ a married woman," Deirdre added.

Marga smiled. "Well, why didn't ye say so in the first place?" She reached for a battered metal cup. "Go into the corner there. Meara an' me'll turn our backs while you do your business."

Deirdre took the cup and did as she was bade, handing the cup to the midwife for the older woman's scrutiny. Her face was alight with excitement at the possibility that she might be once more carrying Allan's child.

"Well?" she asked as the midwife peered into the cup.

* * *

Áinfean was walking around the _Murtagh_, gauging the damage that the storm had done. From the looks of things, they had been lucky to make it to land. The main mast had a crack in it that would have very soon toppled that heavy pole onto the deck; the keel was so scraped, that water would surely come in if the ship were not aground. Áinfean frowned—the repairs would take many weeks, possibly months with winter coming on. Luckily, the _Murtagh_ was not expected anywhere—ever. Her cargo consisted of stolen wine, which could be traded to the A' Dales for accommodations for the duration of their stay, and bolts of cloth which could hopefully be traded to Lord O'Brian for help in acquiring wood and pitch and lengths of rope—whatever was needed to make the _Murtagh_ sea-worthy again. There was, of course, enough gold and silver to help with the purchases as well, but wine went bad eventually, and cloth rotted—coin was not so perishable.

Thoughts of the A' Dales and O'Brian brought thoughts of the morning's goings-on to Áinfean's mind. Gustave had behaved poorly and had deserved what he had gotten as far as the captain could see. She smiled as she thought of Mistress A' Dale's spunk and quick mind, to have been able to protect herself like that. The reaction of her husband had been totally understandable, but what intrigued Áinfean was the reaction of O'Brian—he had acted like a lover, protecting his own. Áinfean wondered if the men shared the woman, although A' Dale had not seemed like the type who would be willing to share. Another mystery was the way in which Mistress A' Dale had defended herself. Very few people, even pub owners, used metal spoons for their cooking—wood was cheaper and easy to replace; the A' Dales were certainly well-off if they could afford metal cooking utensils. Áinfean tucked it in the back of her mind to find out exactly _how_ well off, as well as the exact nature of the bond between Mistress A' Dale and Lord O'Brian.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry it took me so long. I've been super-busy in RL. Please bear with me--I may not be able to post as often as before. Please review to let me know what you think!**


	8. Chapter 8: A Visit to the Midwife

Ruarc stood uncomfortably outside of the midwife's cottage. He had a good idea of why they were here—Deirdre must have reason to believe she was pregnant. Ruarc frowned, thinking of that; he loved Deirdre still, although the feelings had mellowed with the realization of her love for Allan. It still made him uncomfortable however, to see the _proof_ of that love growing in Deirdre's belly or running around creating havoc.

Across the doorway from him, Allan chuckled, grinning and dipping his head.

"What's so funny?" Ruarc demanded, looking over at Deirdre's husband. So far, Ruarc had found absolutely no humor in any part of the whole day.

"Deirdre! She 'ad that man screamin' like a stuck pig, she did!" Allan shook his head in admiration for his wife.

"He deserved that and more—he's lucky he left here intact," Ruarc responded hotly, turning his head back to stare, unseeing, into the village once more.

"Aye, but Deirdre sure gave 'im somethin' to remember," Allan gave back, surprised at the intensity of Ruarc's reaction after so many hours.

Allan knew that Ruarc loved Deirdre, but the incident was done and past, and she was safe. He frowned as a suspicious thought wormed its way into his head, quickly followed by others—what if Ruarc had not given up on winning Deirdre away from him as the big warrior had claimed? What if Ruarc still wanted his wife the way a man wants a woman? What if their lord's love was not so filial as he claimed?

Ruarc did not notice Allan's growing unease as his gaze moved to the ground before him. The silence stretched as Allan wrestled with old jealousies and Ruarc with his conscience. Finally, Ruarc spoke, his voice nearly a whisper, coated in guilt.

"She shouldn't have had to. She was supposed to be safe here. I promised her. I promised you both that you would be safe with me."

Allan barely heard the words over the tumult of thoughts in his head, but once they were spoken, those black thoughts were banished again, and understanding dawned in his eyes. His glare softened and he raised his eyebrows, his whole body relaxing with the knowledge that it was not the protectiveness of a lover Ruarc felt, but that of a lord, and possibly of a brother. Allan noticed the flush in Ruarc's cheeks and realized that the man was embarrassed.

"Look, Ruarc, it ain't your fault…" he began.

"It is!" Ruarc cut in, turning to glare at Allan before lowering his voice and repeating the words. "It is my fault. I should've kept you two at the manor. You're good with the weapons—I could've found a place for you in my guard. I would've paid you well, and then Deirdre wouldn't have had to work, wouldn't have had to run the risk of meeting up with strangers, men who might hurt her."

Allan's brows drew down as Ruarc's words sunk in. "You mean, you coulda 'ad me 'angin' about, playing at swords and archery every now an' then instead o' tillin' the bleedin' fields an' bustin' my butt runnin' the soddin' pub?" He turned to Ruarc, glaring at the other man, who had the good graces to shift his feet uncomfortably and flush even further in embarrassment.

"Well, when you put it like that…"

"You're the one what said it! Why din't you tell me there was a spot open on yer guard? And what's this about good pay?"

"So, Deirdre's with child again?" Ruarc asked in an effort to change the subject, turning so that his back was once more to the cottage.

"She could be. We don't know fer sure. An' this discussion ain't over about a good payin' guard job, ye know." Allan glowered at the taller man.

Ruarc nodded solemnly, staring out at the village. Allan frowned but subsided to also once more rest his back against the cottage wall.

"Looks like it'll be clear today," Ruarc said after a time.

"Good day to see to repairs," Allan returned.

* * *

Áinfean strolled back to the rath, determined to find Lord O'Brian and ask him for assistance, and also to speak to the A' Dales about lodging. She found the pub occupied only by the old man who had claimed to be the former owner; he told her the A' Dales and O'Brian could be found at the midwife's cottage and pointed her in the right direction. Cocking an eyebrow in consternation at what _both_ men were doing there with the woman, Áinfean walked off in the general direction that had been shown her. The news made her think once more that the men shared the woman. She had seen women who kept more than one man—particularly in some of the older villages where women still ruled. If this was the set-up Deirdre had, then the woman could definitely have chosen worse-looking men to share her bed. The whole idea, though, filled Áinfean with disgust—it had been years since she had allowed a man to touch her in that way, and if God was good, no man ever would again.

Áinfean came around the corner of the candle-maker's house and pulled up short—the two men in question stood on either side of what must be the midwife's cottage. Their backs were to the door, their eyes staring straight ahead, their sides to her. At first glance, the two men were as different as night and day—one was short, one was tall; one was light-haired, the other dark-haired; one looked sinewy, the other muscular. In a fight though, Áinfean would not discount Allan A' Dale—she had seen too many men like him in her life, men who had a lot more to them than met the eye. Big, powerful, and strong, Ruarc O'Brian made Áinfean shudder—she had met too many men like _him_ in her years as well. The end result of these meetings had not been good for Áinfean, particularly in her younger years, before she had a crew who would protect her with their lives, before Cameron MacKenzie had appointed himself her personal bodyguard. Most women would have felt comforted by Ruarc's presence, but Áinfean was not most women—the idea of what he could do to her made her tremble with loathing, not anticipation. Rolling her shoulders, she strode forward just as Deirdre exited the midwife's cottage. Áinfean felt like the outsider she was as the two men turned, and Allan put his hands on his wife's arms.

* * *

"Well?" Allan asked expectantly.

Deirdre looked glum, almost to the point of tears, as she stared at her feet. When she raised her head, Allan could see that her eyes were indeed glistening with sadness. She shook her head and began to weep as Allan enveloped her in his arms, kissing her head and shushing her. Ruarc and Allan exchanged a look and Ruarc quietly moved away to leave the couple in relative privacy.

"It's all right, luv. We're young, and strong, and plenty randy…we'll 'ave more babes, you'll see."

Allan's words had the desired effect, as Deirdre let a small laugh escape through the sobs. She snuffled and pulled away a bit, wiping her face on her shirtsleeve, and turning eyes full of misery up to her husband.

Allan had a sudden bad feeling. "If you ain't carryin' though, what's wrong? You ain't sick or nothin' are you?"

Deirdre shook her head again and laid it against her husband's chest once more. Behind her, the midwife stepped from the cottage, and Allan looked to the old woman, his face screwed up in confusion and worry.

"She ain't with child, that's sure, but she ain't sick, neither," the old woman claimed.

"I don't get it. What's wrong, then?" Allan asked.

"Yer wife is tired," the old woman answered simply.

"Tired?" Allan looked at the old woman like she had lost her mind.

"Aye, and her body's tryin' to trick her into getting' some rest."

"I don't understand what you mean." Allan's eyebrows were turned down in confusion still.

"Since she won't tell you, I will. Yer wife works hard in the pub all day—baking, cooking, cleaning up…"

"Well, yeah, we both do. My body ain't tryin' to convince me _I'm_ pregnant!" Allan sounded not only perplexed, but more than a little distressed now.

"Of course not, you great lout!" the midwife snapped. "When's the last time you changed a wet nappie, or got up in the middle of the night when one of your sons was hungry or cold or scared or just plain cranky? When's the last time yer sleep was interrupted, eh?"

Allan looked non-plussed for a moment, then thoughtful as he remembered all the times the boys had woken up in the night. Deirdre had always gotten up to take care of them, telling Allan to go back to sleep, that he needed his rest. It had never occurred to Allan that she wasn't getting proper sleep herself as a result.

"Well, yeah, that's true, but it ain't like I can feed the boys when they wake at night—I ain't got the right equipment for that." Allan began to feel a bit defensive as he stood there holding his wife with the old woman glaring at him.

"Buy some goats," the midwife advised.

"Goats?" Allan was certain the old woman was mad now. How were goats going to solve Deirdre's lack of sleep? Just because the females were called nannies didn't mean they were going to change wet nappies in the night and rock the boys back to sleep.

"The boys can drink goats' milk in a pinch, so you can get up some nights and feed them, leaving yer wife to sleep a bit."

"You want my sons to drink goats' milk?"

The old woman raised a warning eyebrow at Allan, who just glared back at her. _Next thing you know, my boys'll be eatin' garbage and head-buttin' anyone what's bent over,_ Allan thought blackly.

"Not every night, just some nights, you idjit," the midwife answered, her patience wearing thin.

"Excuse me," Áinfean put in, walking up to the group. Ruarc turned from where he had been standing a little ways off, listening, but giving a semblance of privacy to Deirdre, Allan, and the midwife.

"I don't mean to intrude," the captain continued, "but I was on my way to find you and I couldn't help overhearing a bit. Your wife is overworked right now, with taking care of the children and the pub, right?"

Allan looked to the midwife for confirmation and the old woman nodded; Deirdre raised her head from Allan's chest to narrow her eyes suspiciously at the captain.

"Well, my ship's in a bit of a bad way. We'll need somewhere to stay while we repair it. We were going to trade you some wine we had on board, but what if we work for you instead, helping with small things around the pub? My crew's wonderful at cleaning and repairs, and I feel like I owe you a bit extra for Gustav's behavior. Let us help—just through the winter, in exchange for room and board."

Deirdre spoke then, clearing her throat to ensure her voice sounded strong once more.

"That's a fine offer, Captain Murphy. We'll think on it and let you know later."

Áinfean smiled and nodded, heading back for her ship. She knew they would be staying here for the winter anyway, it was just a matter of if it was on the ship or in the town.

Allan looked down at his wife's exhausted face.

"Well that was a bit rude, wasn't it?" he asked.

"Allan, I don't trust that woman. She's up to no good, I just know it," Deirdre responded hotly.

Ruarc moved closer.

"I don't know, Deirdre. She seemed genuine," he added, his gaze captured by the backside of the departing captain.

"Men!" Deirdre spat disgustedly. "Do you know why I got away with thieving for so long? Do you?"

Both men looked genuinely confused.

"Because no one believes a pretty face can hide something bad. All I had to do was bat my eyelashes at the right man and I was suddenly innocent," she continued.

Allan looked thoughtful. "Well, yeah, except for the sheriff of Nottingham. He was set to 'ang you."

Deirdre frowned at her husband—he would bring up her one failure at flirting her way out of a situation.

"Look, all I'm saying is, keep an eye on her."

"Why doesn't she stay at the manor? I've guards there. She and her crew can work for you during the day, but you don't have to worry about her at night. Plus, they won't be filling up the pub's extra beds for no money."

"And what about _your_ expenses, Ruarc?" Deirdre asked, concern tingeing her voice.

"Let me worry about that. I'm sure I'll get my money's worth out of Murphy and her crew," he responded lightly. "The important thing is that you two get some help around the pub. Mike didn't have near the business you two've got, and he had no children to tend, either. I'll not have my godsons' parents too exhausted to move if I can help it."

Deirdre stepped up to Ruarc, placing a hand on his arm.

"Ruarc, I can't let you do this. It's far too generous an offer."

Ruarc smiled off-handedly. "Now, Deirdre, you know you can't stop me, either." Ruarc put his arms around her and hugged her close, kissing the top of her head. "I'll send someone to cook for you for today and tomorrow, and Mike can run the business end of things. I want you two to stay at the manor—my staff'll see to your needs. In fact, Murphy and her crew will stay at the pub tonight and tomorrow so you aren't disturbed. I'll take your room so you'll have no need to worry about your things."

"And the boys?" Deirdre asked, raising an eyebrow. _Leave it to a man to forget all about the children,_ she thought archly. "Who'll feed them and comfort them and change their dirty nappies?"

Ruarc frowned thoughtfully for a moment before his face brightened. "The O'Malley twins! They adore the boys, and the boys give that back to them twofold. I'm sure the girls would take care of them for you for a couple of days."

Allan moved behind her and put his arms around his wife's waist, nuzzling aside the strands of hair near her ear.

"Sounds like Ruarc's got it all worked out for us, luv," he said quietly into her ear. Ruarc stood before her with his hands on her arms. She should have felt trapped between the two men, especially since they were trying to maneuver her into doing something she did not want to do, but instead, she felt loved. They cared enough about her to stand up to her and arrange things so that she could get some rest. She wondered how she had gotten so lucky as to have both of these men love her so deeply. She smiled up at Ruarc, then leaned up to place a gentle kiss on his lips, turning her head to give her husband the same a moment later.

"I love you both, do you know that?" She smiled, her eyes crinkling with warmth as her gaze drank in the two men.

Ruarc and Allan smiled back, leaning in to place a kiss on either cheek before Ruarc moved away. Deirdre's nearness, her kiss, the love in her eyes, had set his body on fire once more, and he had no desire to sully the wonderful moment with the obvious signs of his body's approval.

"I guess I've some things to arrange," he stated, clearing his throat and turning to walk painfully toward the manor.

Allan hugged Deirdre close for another moment before moving from behind her to take her hand and lead her toward the manor as well.

"Where're you going, Allan? The pub's this way," Deirdre asked in consternation.

"Aye, but we're to stay at the manor, ain't we?"

"We have to get some clothes and things, though," Deirdre answered, tugging his hand to try to pull him in the opposite direction.

Allan yanked on her arm, pulling her into his embrace as he bent to whisper against her mouth, "Two days with no kids and no customers and ye think ye'll need clothes?"

He crushed his mouth to hers, opening her lips for his tongue's assault as his arms held her body close to his. A moment later, they heard the sound of someone clearing their throat and looked up to see the old midwife staring at them, hands on hips, one eyebrow cocked.

"I said rest A' Dale, not debauchery," she chided.

Allan smiled his best charming smile at her, the big grin that lit his whole face up.

"O' course I'm gonna let her rest, Mother," he responded, doing his best to sound shocked. He turned and led Deirdre back toward the _Lia Fáil_, his arm around her shoulder, and bent to whisper in her ear, "In between."

Deirdre shivered in anticipation; she thought she might like this idea of taking a couple of days off now and again.

* * *

**A/N: Hope it was worth the wait. Sorry, but RL has just been crazy lately. I finally began working on chapter 9 again, but it is still not ready to go to my beta yet. I hope to have it up in two or three weeks, depending on her schedule as well as mine. If you liked this, or if you didn't, please feel free to let me know with a review. Thanks, as always, for taking the time to read it**.


	9. Chapter 9: Changes

**A/N: At long last-an update! Hope you enjoy and sorry to keep you waiting.**

* * *

The sheriff sat in the hall, his high-backed chair dwarfing him as he leaned forward on the table, lazily picking the grime out of his fingernails. Behind him, a fire was roaring in the grate, the damp wood hissing and popping lightly; once, a larger pop sounded and the sheriff jumped, accidentally nicking the top of his finger. He cursed roundly, turning angry eyes to the door as it opened and a man entered the castle. Vasey cocked an eyebrow in surprise at the identity of the man.

* * *

"Gisbourne. How unpleasant to see you again. What are you doing here? Slumming?"

Guy grimaced. He had not missed the sheriff's nasty temperament, nor the odious little man's attempts at humor.

"My Lord Sheriff, I have come to collect the taxes from Locksley and then I will be on my way. I came only out of courtesy to let you know I was in the shire."

"Yes. You always were…courteous. Mind, I've known you were here since you arrived last night."

Guy ignored the sheriff's comment. "I shall be going over the books and should be back here with my taxes by the end of the week."

The sheriff's smile was as greasy as ever. "I look forward to it, Gisbourne."

Guy turned and exited back through the door. Vasey watched as the door closed. "I look forward to it," he repeated quietly.

* * *

In the courtyard, Guy shivered from more than just the cold. Vasey had never been a man he had been comfortable working for, but he had done so out of necessity. When he had first come to Vasey's service as a very young man, he had only known that the man had an opening in his guard. Later, he found out that whispers of the nobleman's violence held more truth than lies. Once, Guy had let one of Vasey's serfs escape punishment for a small crime. Vasey had ordered Guy whipped to within an inch of his life. When Guy was nearly recovered, the sheriff had then made Guy carry out a sentence of hanging for the unfortunate serf, a sentence far in excess of the man's crime. Vasey then told Guy in disgusting detail of what _his_ punishment would be the next time he thought to let someone else off from _their_ punishment. From that point on, Guy had adopted a policy of 'punish first, ask questions later.' Mounting his stallion once more, Guy whipped the animal into a run before he had even cleared the city gates. The sooner he was done in Nottingham, the better.

* * *

Ruarc stopped back to the manor in the evening to find Deirdre asleep and Allan hard at sword practice with some of the guards. Ruarc leaned on the fence outside the manor's barn and watched the shorter man's movements, impressed by the deadly grace with which Allan wielded his two swords. Despite the cold, Allan was shirtless and sweating, but his swords moved constantly, biting through the air, creating a deadly circle around him. The swords were lighter than the heavy Celtic sword Ruarc and his men favored, but he noted that Allan was somehow able to move his swords independently from each other and thereby give himself not only more protection, but more reach. While Ruarc was not so certain the lighter, thinner swords would behead a man, he was still convinced that a stab to the heart, throat or eye would serve just as well to bring an enemy to the gates of death. Ruarc watched as, one by one, his guards were beaten back by the former thief. Allan was careful to pull his strokes so that no one was injured beyond a scratch. As dusk settled in to darkness, Allan called a halt and walked over to grab his shirt, raising his eyebrows at Ruarc.

"How long you been there?"

Ruarc shrugged. "Long enough. I have a proposition for you."

* * *

Deirdre awoke to the sun, and the feeling of gentle fingers on her inner thighs. She blinked, confused by her surroundings until memory came back to her. They were at Ruarc's manor and she was on a mandatory holiday. She looked down and found Allan bent over her middle, his fingers gently massaging the unguent that Marga had given her into her sensitive flesh. The sight warmed her on many levels. She couldn't help jumping a bit as his arm accidentally brushed over her mound. Allan looked up quickly.

"I didn't wake ye, did I?" he asked solicitously.

"No, no, you didn't," Deirdre reassured him. She stretched languorously and sighed in contentment.

"Does it hurt?" Allan asked, nodding to the red flesh of her inner thighs.

"A bit, but the balm is helping."

"Deirdre, I…" Allan stopped his rubbing to look up at her, worry creasing his brow.

"Allan, it's all right. Nothing happened." Deirdre tried to soothe Allan with her words, even as he had been trying to soothe her with the balm.

"It ain't all right," Allan declared hotly, launching himself from the bed. He very nearly slammed the jar onto the bedside table before grabbing a cloth to wipe the ointment from his fingers. He focused on the task of cleaning his fingers, his movements rough and jerky as he stood, refusing to meet Deirdre's steady gaze.

On the bed, Deirdre remained quiet, realizing that Allan had more to say, and that he would get to it in his own time. Soon, she arose and dressed, not sure what she would do all day with nothing _to_ do, but knowing she could not spend the entire time lounging about. Behind her, the silence stretched, and she began to re-think the policy of waiting for Allan to continue as her own patience wore thin. She turned and watched as Allan rubbed at already clean fingers over and over; with a sigh, she moved to stand in front of him, reaching out to pluck the cloth from his hand, tossing it to land on the table.

Allan looked up at her, the anguish plain in his gaze.

"Look, Deirdre, I been talkin' to Ruarc. You shoulda never been there. The pub's a dangerous place, luv."

"What do mean, 'the pub's a dangerous place'? The world's a dangerous place, Allan." Deirdre frowned at her husband's words.

"Maybe so, but that don't mean I gotta let _my_ wife and boys get involved in it," Allan responded.

"What are you babbling about?"

"Look, I just want you safe, is all."

Deirdre began to get nervous, wondering why Allan seemed to be evading her questions.

"Allan! What have you done?"

"We're movin' in 'ere."

"What?"

"We're movin' in to the guest house what's attached to the manor. Ruarc asked me to sign on with 'is guard. He needs a new captain, since 'is man is leavin' to set up a farm. The men all like me. They've accepted me as their new captain already."

"Have you lost your mind? What about the pub? What about Mike? What'll he do?"

"Ruarc's gonna find someone else to run the pub. Mike'll be fine. I already talked to 'im, and 'e agreed that it's best you're safe."

"And just what am I supposed to do while you're out playing 'captain of the guard'?" Deirdre's voice was low and dangerous. She had gotten plenty of sleep for the first time in years, only to awaken to a slew of changes made _about_ her but _without_ her.

Allan straightened his shoulders and stood to his full height, trying to look intimidating.

"I'm the man, Deirdre. I'm your 'usband, the father of your children. You'll be takin' care o' me and the boys, o' course."

"So I'm just supposed to be your obedient little wife?"

Allan looked thoughtful for a moment before he spoke. "Well, actually, I was thinkin' along the lines o' lovin' and carin' but obedient would be a nice change, too." Allan grinned for the first time, ducking the hand Deirdre had aimed at his head. He grabbed her arms, holding them behind her back as he pulled her closer to him.

"Allan A' Dale, I ought to…" Deirdre shook her blonde hair in agitation as she tried to squirm out of her husband's grasp.

"What, luv? Kiss me for takin' care o' you? Thank me for sparin' you long hours of 'ard work?"

Allan's mouth was a breath away from hers as he spoke. She looked up, her gaze meeting his earnest one. Carefully, Deirdre considered his words. She _had_ been thinking there was more to life than backbreaking labor from before dawn until well into the night. If she was honest with herself, she had actually been hoping to return the pub's ownership to Mike for the past couple of months, anyway. Sure, she enjoyed the income, but what good was it to be well-off if you had no time to enjoy it? Besides, it wasn't like she and Allan would never be able to go back there—it was just that they would no longer _have_ to spend every moment there.

It was not in her nature, though, to let Allan get away with making these decisions without at least talking to her about them first; this was not the purchase of a milk-cow—these were major changes. Revenge would have to wait a bit, until she was fully recovered; for now, she would play the docile wife. With a warm smile, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him tenderly, then whispered, "thank you" into his ear before she laid her head on his shoulder and held him.

A moment's hesitation, and then Allan's arms were wrapping around Deirdre as well, holding his wife close. He was leery of the sudden change in her temper, but as she stood there holding him, a warm smile spread over his face; he closed his eyes and kissed the side of her neck, squeezing her tight for a second.

"Well, well, well. Isn't that a lovely sight? Did you tell her, Allan?"

Deirdre stiffened at the sound of Ruarc's voice before pasting a smile on her face and releasing her husband. She turned to look at the brother of her heart, noting the satisfied expression on his face.

"I did," Allan replied.

"And?"

Deirdre interrupted. "I think it's a wonderful idea, Ruarc. Was it yours?"

Ruarc noted the smile on Deirdre's face, but it did not calm his nerves; he knew her better than most, knew she could skewer a man while smiling at him. If Deirdre wanted his blood for this, she would get it, but he was not sorry for taking her out of harm's way.

"It was," Ruarc answered, standing tall, daring her to challenge him.

"And do the two of you really feel like the pub is that dangerous?"

The two men hesitated, then nodded in unison. It was Ruarc who answered.

"There are strangers in and out all day, strangers sleeping under your roof. Sure, we disarm them, but they've still their meat knives and a whole assortment of dangerous cutlery in the kitchen. To which, we now have to add spoons," he added with a grin

Now that he was doing something to put Deirdre in a safer place, the guilt was beginning to vanish—besides, the whole town was joking about the way the mistress of the _Lia Fáil_ had defended herself from a "foreign invader." Women were asking their men for metal spoons for their Christmas gifts, and men were blanching good-naturedly at the request, although some had real reason to be wary.

Deirdre smiled and ducked her head, before once more meeting Ruarc's gaze. Silently, she walked up to him and put her arms around his waist, laying her head on his chest. Ruarc looked down at her head the way a mastiff looks down on a hissing kitten in his path—amusement, tinged with a very real respect for the sharpness of little claws. Deirdre's voice was muffled as she spoke into his chest.

"Thank you, Ruarc. Thank you both for loving me."

Ruarc placed his own arms gingerly around her, waiting for her to strike.

"So who's running the pub while you two are up here making plans for me?" Deirdre added, keeping her head against Ruarc's chest.

* * *

In Locksley, Guy was sifting his fingers through a casket of silver and copper pennies, a worried frown marring his handsome features.

"It's not enough, Thornton," he declared to the older man.

"My lord, it is all we have," Thornton replied.

"The sheriff will never be satisfied with so little. We shall have to find more, and quickly."

"But how, my lord? It is already doubtful that many families will make it through the winter."

Guy sighed heavily. "My concern is satisfying the sheriff. If he is not satisfied, he will come back here during the winter, while I am away. I do not think the people would like that, do you, Thornton?"

Thornton frowned and shook his head, then worriedly turned to see to the preparations for the master's evening meal. Guy closed the lid, turning the lock and placing the chest back into the guest room before he went outside to tour the village. First, he would have to see if there was truly no more money in Locksley; he would decide what to do after that.

* * *

**A/N: Again, sorry this update has been so long in coming. I have been super busy and super stressed in RL, as well as working on a small slash fic on LJ. I will not promise that the next chap will be any quicker (although I will do my best), as I haven't even written it yet, let alone sent it on to my lovely and supportive beta. If you like this story, click on "Story Alerts" to get an email when I update. As always, thanks for your patience and your lovely reviews! WW :-)**


	10. Chapter 10: Rejuvenation

It had been two weeks since the attack, and Deirdre was going out of her mind with boredom. She took care of Allan, who had always been rather self-sufficient; she took care of the boys, when she could wrestle them away from the O'Malley sisters. Ruarc's house servants extended their duties to the home of the captain at arms, as well, so Deirdre barely had to lift a finger and it was driving her mad. She decided to change into pants, feeling the urge to go for a walk come over her. She knew Allan wouldn't want her to traipse through the woods unprotected, and so she knelt on the wooden floor by the bed she shared with Allan, and pulled a long, heavy box out from under the bed, running her hand reverently along the top and tracing the carving there.

When they had left England so hastily a year and a half ago, Deirdre had been forced to leave her beloved Díoltas behind; Ruarc had promised to send someone to fetch the sword once they reached Ireland, and he had been true to his word. When Ruarc's men had returned with the weapon however, it had been housed in not only the beautifully worked leather scabbard that she had made herself, but also in a brand-new oaken box, which was decorated with such intricate designs that Deirdre had been immediately fascinated by it.

Worked into pictures of trees and forest animals were circles, each one bisected by a line which in turn was bisected by a curve that connected back the original circle—the symbol of Robin Hood's men. Two bushes had branches that looked remarkably like a 'W' and an 'S.' The wood had been buffed until it was as soft as butter, and Deirdre had no fear of splinters as she ran her fingers along the work, moving to open the catch that was midway down on the side. She kept the hinges oiled, so the lid made no sound as it opened and her eyes fell on the blue silk inside.

Carefully, she reached in and peeled back the material to reveal a light brown leather scabbard decorated with swirls and circles and lines that looped over and around themselves—this was the scabbard that she had decorated under the tutelage of her father's tanner. Díoltas had been presented to her on her sixteenth birthday; the only present she had asked for had been a sword and, despite his misgivings, her father had given her one.

Fàelàn O'Niall would never just give his oldest child an ordinary sword, though. Díoltas was forged of expensive Damascus steel, brought to Ireland and wrought by the finest swordsmith her father's deep pockets could find. The blade had been decorated with Celtic scrollwork, and polished until it was almost a mirror, despite its dark color. The leather for the hilt had come from the best Ulster cattle, tanned using the brains of slaughtered animals until it was a soft creamy color that was far more water-resistant than the darker, vegetable-tanned leather.

Rising, she belted the sword to her left hip, the better to draw quickly with her right hand. She headed across the house to the door at the back, thinking that if she went out the front door there would be too many questions to answer. Almost immediately, she was enveloped by the cool shadows of the forest as she walked along deer paths, enjoying the chill of the autumn day. The forest was not nearly so dense or large as Sherwood, and was populated by bare-branched deciduous trees interspersed with evergreens. Filling in the gaps were various bushes and flowering plants, although the flowers were all dead at the moment, the leaves blending in well with the surrounding plants.

It wasn't long before she found a narrower path branching off to the north; following this new path, she came to a small clearing. She stepped into the clearing and walked the perimeter, her feet taking on a natural rhythm as they scouted for holes, roots, and rocks, and her path made smaller and smaller circles until she had checked out the entire glade. The stones that she did find, she chucked into the trees, the rocks she carefully stacked to one side, the holes she filled with dirt. When she had completed her tasks, Deirdre stood for a moment, hands on hips, surveying the clearing. She rubbed her chest as her aching breasts reminded her that she was still required for _some_ tasks back at the manor. She glanced up between the bare branches to see that the sun was nearly to the tree tops to the west of her and realized that she had better hurry lest Allan and Ruarc discovered her gone and began to worry. She smiled ruefully as she thought that with those two, she'd likely be locked up for her own safety if they worried too much. Quickly, she made her way from the glade and hurried home.

* * *

Ruarc, however, was not worried about Deirdre at the moment—he was busy talking to the woodsmen and carpenters who would supply the wood to Áinfean Murphy for the repairs to her ship. The houses in the village that had suffered damage from the storm had been repaired, and now it was time to see to the needs of Captain Murphy and her crew. Even as he thought of the beautiful red-haired captain, she came striding toward him, radiating anger, and a sick part of him looked forward to the encounter, even as the woodworkers fled.

"You!" she began, jabbing a finger into his chest as she came even with him.

Ruarc screwed up his face in pain—she knew how to cause it, that was for sure.

"Yes, that would be me, lass. Have you a point or are you just wanting to clarify who is me?"

She ignored his attempt at a joke, glaring at him instead.

"You," she repeated, pushing her finger at him once more as Ruarc reached up to grab the digit this time. "It has been two weeks, and I've still got no wood to fix my ship. You promised me wood. I've already paid for it. I gave you two bolts of cloth per board, untreated. Where is it? We've got to get the pitch ready…"

"The wood is being cut down and made into planks as we speak. I was just paying the carpenters, now that my village is back to rights and the people can live in their homes again."

Ruarc's admonition appeared to work, as Áinfean calmed down, frowning and looking abashed.

"I'm sorry, O'Brian. I guess I get a little moody when I'm in one place for too long."

"Why don't you take a walk, then? There's plenty of places to explore and we'll have your wood to you soon now."

"Aye, I suppose I could do that." Murphy turned and stomped off without a backward glance.

Ruarc watched her go, feeling his groin tighten as he watched her bottom sway.

* * *

Every day, Deirdre left the manor for a few hours and walked to the little glade; after nearly a week, when she was sure the ground was as flat and free from obstructions as she could make it, she began to practice with her sword. The moves had been ingrained into her by her trainer, Martin, and she was proud to find that even after the years of dormancy, they came back to her more and more swiftly each day.

Díoltas sang through the crisp air as Deirdre wielded it; she would have sworn the weapon was as happy to be out of its box and put to some use again as she felt using it. She began with basic thrusts and parries, but soon her arms tired as the weight of the heavy sword pulled on long-unused muscles. The sword dropped, its tip landing in the ground as Deirdre leaned heavily upon it, breathing hard as sweat ran down her face and neck, staining her shirt. From the forest, she heard clapping and looked up, expecting to see Allan or Ruarc ready with a tongue-in-cheek comment, but instead it was the captain, Áinfean Murphy.

The red-haired woman leaned casually against a tree, crossing her arms as Deirdre looked up. Murphy grinned.

"Tell me, what is a pub mistress…"

"Ex-pub mistress," Deirdre interrupted, straightening quickly.

"Excuse me. Ex-pub mistress. What is an ex-pub mistress doing out here in the middle of the woods, throwing around a great big sword? And a fine sword it looks, too."

"I don't see where that's any of your business."

"All right. But if you ever decide you'd like to learn how to actually _use_ that sword…which you got from whom, by the way? I'd be glad to help," Áinfean retorted smugly.

Deirdre's face had turned red at Áinfean's words, and her own voice was low and dangerous as she replied.

"The sword is mine, and I know how to use it well enough. I'm out of practice, is all."

"Perhaps Lord Ruarc should've given you lessons along with the gift of it for…services rendered?"

"Services rendered? I don't…"

Áinfean raised an eyebrow, allowing her gaze to slide up and down Deirdre's body, and suddenly Deirdre understood; she stood in shock at the captain's insinuation.

"You…I…you…" Deirdre swallowed before finding her voice once more. "You think that Ruarc gave me this…for sleeping with him?"

"It makes sense. The way he's moon-eyed over you. The way he hangs about with you and your husband. The way he gave your husband a good job so you could be closer to him. It makes sense."

Deirdre nearly fell from laughing. When she could breathe again, she looked into Áinfean's green eyes and responded.

"It makes no sense at all, but I can see where you might think such a thing, looking in from the outside. Ruarc and I were practically raised together. He's like a brother to me, and I have no interest in doing such things with a sibling. He gave the captaincy of his guard to Allan because Allan deserved it and the old captain is moving on. I've had the sword since I was sixteen, and I'd like to see you wield one when you've had your hands full of babies and pies instead for two years."

It was the most words Deirdre had ever spoken to Áinfean, and for a moment the captain stood, non-plussed, before breaking out in a huge grin.

"You know it'll be easier to get your skills back when you've a sparring partner," she offered.

Deirdre raised an eloquent eyebrow before grinning and picking up the sword to stand at guard.

* * *

**A/N: I need your help. I am considering attaching some pics to the chaps over on LiveJournal, but I'm not sure who my girls are. Please send me your ideas for who (actress, singer, model, etc) you would choose to play the following: Deirdre, Addy, & Áinfean. They must meet the descriptions of the characters, and there must be numerous photos to choose from. Thanks in advance for your help!**


	11. Chapter 11: Wounded Pride

**A/N: Sorry it's been so long—RL's been crazy. I hope you enjoy! Thanks, as always, go to whatsthefracas for her beta skills.**

* * *

The sound of metal clashing with metal was loud in the still air of winter—the women's grunts of exertion a mere backdrop, like the sound of a harp behind the singer's voice. Deirdre danced and spun, blocking Áinfean's attacks. In the past days, Deirdre's strength had slowly returned, although it had been difficult to keep the pain of muscles tearing and rebuilding themselves from Allan and Ruarc. Deirdre's stoicism had been rewarded however, by Áinfean's inability to get past her guard anymore.

Stepping cautiously, the women circled one another, each searching for an opening past the other's guard. Áinfean attacked, and Deirdre blocked once more, her face mere inches from the captain's.

"You know," grunted Áinfean, "you owe me."

"I owe you nothing," Deirdre replied, shoving Áinfean away and beginning to circle once more.

"Come now, I've helped you train, and I've kept quiet about it."

Áinfean shifted from one foot to the other, her hips swaying with the movement, her sword an extension of her right arm as she used her left for balance.

This time it was Deirdre who attacked and Áinfean who blocked, the women once more so close they could have kissed.

"What are you on about?" Deirdre growled as the two women disengaged once more.

"Well, you _have_ asked me not to say anything of our meetings to anyone…"

For a heartbeat, Deirdre blanched, but then she recovered, refusing to show weakness in front of the other woman.

"That was while I was still getting back into shape. I didn't want to look a fool if anyone who knew me wanted to come and watch our training."

"Rubbish! You didn't want your husband to find out because you were afraid he'd stop you."

"And what makes you think my husband could stop me?"

"Well you are his _wife_," Áinfean retorted with disdain, her emphasis making the last word sound like 'slave'. "In fact," she continued, "you might as well just give me that pretty sword of yours. Once your husband finds out about this, he'll tie you to the bed and get you back to your job—making babies."

Deirdre knew better. _Never attack in anger_, Martin had always said. But the fact was, Áinfean had struck a nerve. All of Deirdre's restlessness, her missing of the freedom she had used to have, came roiling to the surface,and with a howl like a Fury going into battle, Deirdre attacked, her sword flashing through the air, Áinfean only just blocking some of the strokes. Deirdre's rage continued unabated until she got one cut in under Áinfean's guard, putting a gash in the woman's thigh. Áinfean cried out but kept her ground—it was Deirdre who dropped her sword and stopped.

"Christ on the cross, I'm sorry," she swore, dropping to the ground at Áinfean's feet. "Are you all right?"

Áinfean stood, blood running down her leg. She tried to keep her voice stoic as she replied, but pain made it crack.

"I think I ought to sit."

Áinfean's hand opened and her sword fell to the ground; she staggered and nearly fell, but Deirdre caught her and lowered her gently to the ground, allowing Díoltas to fall from her hands at the same time. Dropping to the ground, Deirdre tore the leg of Áinfean's pants open, revealing a gash that was the length and width of a man's long finger; it was impossible to tell how deep it was, as blood was rushing out. Deirdre noted in horror that the blood was the deep red of a major wound, one that would bleed the captain's body dry if left to heal on its own. She tore the bottom of her shirt, ripping a strip off and using it to stem the tide of the blood by making a tourniquet just above the wound. Next, she tore another piece of the shirt to make a temporary bandage.

"Murphy, we must get back to the village."

When no answer came, Deirdre looked up from tying the bandage. Áinfean's face was pale and sweat coated her upper lip; her eyes were glazed. Deirdre knew the woman was going into shock and that if she wasn't treated soon, she could die. Leaning forward, she pulled Murphy over her shoulders-head hanging on one side, feet on the other-then awkwardly rose, staggering under the weight before finding her balance. Deirdre moved from the clearing as fast as she was able.

The trip back to Ruarc's manor seemed to take forever under the burden of Murphy's extra weight. Deirdre didn't dare to set the captain down though, afraid she wouldn't have the strength to lift her once more, and so she forged on, refusing to even stop to rest. At long last, the trees thinned, and the back of the manor came into view.

The cook, Kathleen, was emptying a bucket of water, and looked up in surprise at the appearance of the woman she considered to be a nuisance at the edge of the little woods. Dropping the bucket, she hurried forward, her annoyance at seeing Ruarc's 'sister' disappeared when she noticed the person slung over Deirdre's shoulders.

"What've you done?" she demanded, sure Deirdre was responsible for the wounded person's state.

"Just help me, you ornery old woman!" Deirdre huffed, her energy taxed.

Kathleen frowned, but held open the door to the kitchen, allowing Deirdre to pass through. Moving to the table, the cook cleared it quickly, shoving items to the edges and the floor in her haste.

Deirdre carefully lowered her burden onto the newly cleared space, watching as Kathleen bustled about, fetching water and clean cloths.

"What's all this, then?"

Deirdre nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Ruarc's deep voice.

* * *

Guy rode through the gloom of Sherwood, his nerves frayed by the sounds the forest made at this time of year. It was nearly dusk, and a chill breeze kicked up, soughing through the bare branches, adding to Guy's unease. He knew he would come across Robin, just by the simple act of placing himself in the forest.

Guy rode a different horse from his usual charger and wore a cloak as both protection from the cold air and a form of disguise. This road was frequented by Robin and his gang, and the last thing Guy wanted was an arrow through his throat before he could talk to Robin.

Guy rode deeper into the gloaming; the horse seemed to pick up on Guy's nerves and began nodding its head and prancing as it walked, making the harness jangle in the otherwise silent forest. And it was silent, Guy noted, his senses even more on alert—no birds sang, no bushes rustled from the passage of small forest animals.

A figure jumped from the cover of the encroaching brush and grabbed the horse's reins, causing the animal to shriek and rear. Guy was nearly unseated despite his excellent horsemanship. The stallion landed back on all four hooves, and Guy found himself staring into the laughing eyes of the very man he had been seeking. The horse's rearing had jostled Guy's hood until it fell to his shoulders, revealing him to Robin Hood.

"Well, well, well. What have we here? Looks like the "Lord of Locksley" has wandered off his estate, lads."

The rest of the gang materialized like wraiths from the misty forest on both sides of the road, weapons drawn and all aimed at Guy's chest.

Guy sat quietly on the stallion, his steady gaze locked with Robin's hardening one.

"What's to keep us from killing you right here and ridding Locksley of you forever?" Robin asked.

"You don't kill," Guy replied, although at the moment, he wasn't quite so sure that the gang would not break that rule for him.

Robin laughed then, mirthlessly, the sound seeming to confirm Guy's suspicions. For himself, he didn't care, but the thought of Addy having to fend for herself once more, and take care of his children on top of it, made Guy speak words he never thought he would utter.

"And because I need your help."

"Our help? What could you possibly need from us?" Robin responded in surprise.

"Money. To pay the taxes for Locksley," Guy said.

The gang shuffled uneasily, exchanging confused looks before Robin spoke once more.

"I think you've got this arrangement all turned around, Guy. _We're_ supposed to rob from _you_ for the poor. Why should we help you?"

"Because I have already given the sheriff every last shilling I brought with me and he says the tax is still more. Because it will take me weeks to get the money here from Mablethorpe if Lady Gisbourne can even find more. And because the people of Locksley will die if you do not."

Robin looked up at Guy and seemed to come to a decision.

"Get down from the horse. Walk with me."

Guy hesitated—his pride bellowed at him not to take orders from the annoying outlaw, but rationality's soft voice won out and he swung his leg over the stallion's back, removing his left foot from the stirrup at the same time and sliding gracefully to the ground.

* * *

Áinfean winced as Deirdre pulled the last stitch, closing the small thigh wound. Deirdre washed her hands in the nearby bowl of water, then took the cloth she had been using to clean Áinfean's wound, and gave the area around the stitches a last swipe. She reached for a bottle of whiskey from one of the well-stocked kitchen shelves and unstoppered the top; her downcast eyes still refused to meet those of the captain.

"Put this in your mouth," Deirdre ordered, handing Áinfean a clean cloth. As soon as the captain complied, Deirdre poured a healthy dose of the alcohol onto Áinfean's stitches.

The whiskey burned like fire, causing her to cry out through the cloth in her mouth. Áinfean swayed, leaning heavily on Ruarc, who stood to her side with his arm behind her. Deirdre leaned forward and removed the rag from Áinfean's mouth, holding the whiskey bottle there instead. Some of the golden liquid ran down Áinfean's chin, and Deirdre quickly wiped it up after taking the bottle back and handing it to Ruarc.

"Next time, don't go near Deirdre when she's a sword in her hand," Ruarc advised Áinfean as the color slowly began to return to her face. He grinned, watching as Deirdre went pale, then florid with anger, her movements jerky as she cleaned up after the impromptu surgery.

"Ruarc O'Brian, you know very well that I'm an expert with that sword," she retorted.

"Ah, so you _meant_ to stab my guest."

"No, I didn't. It was an accident."

Ruarc smiled smugly, sure he had made his point.

"So you made a…mistake?"

Deirdre glared at him, squinting her eyes.

"Yes, I made a mistake."

Ruarc's grin widened.

"I should've been practicing with you! I could've never dragged you back here, you big oaf, and then I'd be rid of you."

Ruarc's eyes widened and he grabbed for his chest in mock dismay.

"I'm wounded, lass." His eyes took on a mischievous glint as he gestured with his head toward the wounded Áinfean. "Mind, not as wounded as Captain Murphy here."

With an oath, Deirdre turned and stormed out of the kitchen. Ruarc—still grinning—glanced at Áinfean, who was still looking pale, but not as unsteady as she sat on the table, leaning on her elbows.

"Here, let me help you to a chair—it'll be easier for you to sit with some support behind you."

Áinfean stiffened as Ruarc picked her up, one arm under her legs, the other around her waist.

"I'll be fine," she protested.

"Well, of course you will. When you're as dangerous with sharp objects as Deirdre is, you must be a bang-up surgeon as well. It'll be more comfortable if you put yer arms around my neck, instead of digging yer elbow into my ribs."

"I'm sure it will." Áinfean eyed Ruarc warily, before giving in with a sigh.

Ruarc held Áinfean easily as he carried her from the kitchen, through the dining area, and into the sitting room at the front of the manor. Gently, he placed her on the settee by the fire.

"I'll be right back," Ruarc said, and strode quickly into the bedroom at the back of the house. He reached into a chest at the foot of the bed that held extra blankets and took one out before returning to the sitting room and gently placing the blanket over Áinfean's legs.

"There now, that'll keep you warm. Shall I have Kathleen bring you some nice hot tea or some broth?"

"That would be nice. Thank you," Áinfean replied. She shifted uncomfortably on the couch as she waited for Ruarc to return. She knew that O'Brian's kindness would carry a price, just as every man's kindness to her had ever done, but she wasn't sure she could pay him back properly with her leg in its current condition. Her suspicions seemed justified when Ruarc returned to the sitting room a few minutes later.

"We'll keep you here for the night to be sure you're all right. You'll sleep in my bed."

Áinfean looked uncomfortably around the room, refusing to meet Ruarc's eyes as she spoke.

"Lord O'Brian, I'll happily pay the wage you're requesting once I'm healed. You've been more than kind to me, and I suppose I should've seen it coming, but at the moment, I'm afraid I will be unable to serve you properly." Áinfean pointed to her stitched-up leg as illustration.

Ruarc's brows lowered in confusion at her words.

"What do you mean—"pay the wage"? I've not requested any payment, save what you've already given for the wood…" Ruarc trailed off as understanding dawned on his face and his eyes widened in shock.

"Do you think I would…and you injured? And even if you weren't…How could you think…? I would never…! Jazus Lord, Murphy! God knows you're gorgeous, and I wouldn't mind takin' a tumble with ya, but not that way."

Ruarc—visibly shaken—stomped out the front door, letting it slam behind him as Áinfean sat in shock on the couch, staring at the door.


	12. Chapter 12: Reminiscence

**A/N: Sorry, guys. I know I'm a bad little author. RL continues to inundate me. Thanks to all who are waiting so patiently!**

* * *

Allan was returning home near evening when he found Deirdre, walking along toward the house, looking dejected. He came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, stopping her forward momentum and planting a kiss on her neck. When she didn't respond, he turned her around to find her face tear-streaked.

"What's all this, then, luv?"

In answer, Deirdre snuffled, staring at her feet.

Allan bent down to try to capture her gaze, but even when he moved a hand to her chin to force it up, her eyes remained downcast. It was then Allan noticed the brown stains on her clothing—dried blood, but whose?

"Deirdre? Talk to me. What's wrong? Are you all right? Where are the boys? Are they all right?"

That finally elicited a response from his wife. "What? The boys? What have they got to do with…yes, they're fine. I'm fine."

Allan blew out a breath in relief. "Then what's all this about?" Allan's face went pale as a thought struck him. "It's not…" he lowered his voice and leaned in closer, "it's not…you know…your monthly, is it?" If it was, Allan was seriously considering living in the woods for a few days. Deirdre was unpredictable at the best of times—when her moon flow came upon her, she could be downright dangerous. At this moment, the previous owner of the blood on Deirdre's clothes could be laying in a ditch somewhere, needing medical assistance.

Deirdre snuffled again. "No, it's not that."

Allan sighed in relief once more. "Then what's wrong, luv?"

"I…I hurt Captain Murphy."

Allan pursed his lips and raised his eyes, easily able to envision such a scenario. "Well, it's no surprise. Everyone knows you don't like the woman. So long as ye didn't…I mean, she _is_ still alive, ain't she?"

Deirdre blew out a breath in frustration. "Yes! Of course, she's still alive. But I cut her bad enough to have to stitch it."

"Where? And how?"

"In the thigh, with Díoltas."

Allan frowned in concentration. "You've been practicin' yer swordplay? Where?"

"In the forest."

"Why didn't you come to me? I woulda helped you."

"I felt silly. I'm a mum now, after all."

"You were afraid people would laugh at you?" Allan stared at his wife incredulously. The women of the village all admired Deirdre—albeit, some were a bit jealous for some reason—and the men, well, after the incident with the French sailor, there wasn't a man within twenty miles that would dare to laugh at her.

Deirdre glanced up, smiling uncertainly; at the look of pure shock on her husband's face, the smile widened. Then, as he explained to her exactly why no man would even consider making fun of her anymore, even if they had before, small chuckles began to escape from both of their throats, soon turning into full-fledged laughs. Allan pulled Deirdre close and, as their laughter slowly died down, her arms finally went around his waist.

"Now then, where's Murphy and where are the swords you and Murphy were using?"

Deirdre sighed. "Murphy's recovering at the manor. The swords are still in the forest."

"We should get them before we lose the light, eh?"

Deirdre nodded and pulled away, leading the way toward the path.

* * *

Áinfean frowned in consternation. O'Brian's meaning had been quite clear when he claimed that she would stay there, in his bed, for the night. She could not understand why he seemed to have taken offense at the idea. Moments later, Ruarc re-entered the manor. He still looked shaken as he drew a hand through his dark locks and strode to the chair next to her near the wall. He sat hard, with a sound that was very nearly a growl, refusing to even look at Áinfean as he gazed into the fire. The silence stretched as the fire crackled and popped, and then both of them spoke at once.

"Murphy, I…"

"O'Brian, I…"

The pair looked over at each other and grinned ruefully.

"You first," Áinfean said.

"No, you," Ruarc commanded.

With a sigh, Áinfean spoke. "I just thought…I mean, after all you've done for me and my crew…and the way I can feel your eyes on me sometimes…" Áinfean let her gaze wander over her shoulder toward the bedroom at the back of the house before returning to meet Ruarc's steady look. She blushed as she shrugged her shoulders, and then was silent.

Ruarc cleared his throat, and with an effort, spoke softly. "Look, I'll not pretend to know what sort of rough men you've had dealings with as the female captain of a ship, but me mam taught me early on to respect women. And that if I didn't, they were every bit as capable as a man at breakin' every bone in my body, only they'd start by damagin' my favorite parts. When I fostered with the O'Nialls, Deirdre was kind enough to continue my lessons in respect for women. When and if I ever bed you, it'll be because we both want it, not because you're payin' a debt of some sort. Understand?"

Áinfean nodded, although she was still confused. Ruarc was a rare breed of man—similar to the men under her command—and there had been no denying the affection in his voice when he had spoken of his mother and of Deirdre. Áinfean decided now was as good a time as any to find out more about the one relationship, anyway.

"You really love her, don't you?"

"Don't most men love their mothers?" Ruarc countered smoothly with a small smile.

"That's not what I meant and you know it. Tell me," she urged, glancing down at her stitched-up leg when he hesitated. "It's not like I'm going anywhere for awhile. She _is_ quite beautiful."

Ruarc snorted. "She wasn't always so. When I first met Deirdre, she was a rat-haired, dirty little ragamuffin, stealin' food and getting' chased for it."

"Tell me more," Áinfean demanded. "Tell me about the first time you met."

Ruarc sighed and sat back in his chair, folding his hands across his belly. Kathleen poked her head in from the kitchen. "A cup of mulled wine before dinner, my lord?"

"That'd be lovely, Kathleen. Thank you," he continued as the ample-bodied cook crossed the room and handed a mug to him, looking to see if Captain Murphy was still good with her own drink before returning to the kitchen. Ruarc waited until Kathleen had closed the door to the kitchen before settling back once more and taking a sip of the wine. He stared into the fire, a small smile playing along his lips.

"I was just thirteen when I went to foster with Fàelàn O'Niall. Proud as a peacock I was to be chosen. Fostering with O'Niall meant I was a man, and ready to do manly things, like go to war."

"You fostered with _Fàelàn_ O'Niall?" Áinfean interrupted, her eyes wide. When he had said O'Niall at first, her mind had conjured some minor lordling, not _the_ O'Niall. Everyone had heard of Fàelàn O'Niall—richer than King Midas, more influential than Abraham—to have their son fostered with Fàelàn O'Niall was a coup for any family.

"Did you want me to tell the story or no?" Ruarc demanded, although he was still smiling as he turned to look at Áinfean.

"I'm sorry," Áinfean stammered out, then clamped her mouth shut, waiting expectantly.

"Where was I? Oh, yes, 'manly things'. Well, I was in the market one day, down by the blacksmith's, as I'd been there to bring one of my master's swords for repair. I was striding along, quite pleased with myself since the blacksmith had told me I handled the sword like a man of sixteen. Suddenly, I got slammed against a wall by some ratty little urchin who then darted behind me and wriggled into a hole in the wall of an unused stall that I still to this day would never believe she coulda fit in. She turned her back and," Ruarc snapped his fingers, "disappeared just like that.

A large man with a florid face came puffing up a few minutes later, asking as did I see the little urchin. I showed him where she went and he growled at me, telling me that if I wasn't going to be helpful, I could at least be honest and say _no_ instead of wasting his time with tales. He shook his head at me and turned to go back to his stall. I waited and sure enough, saw a filthy head poke outta the hole where she'd been the whole time. The man hadn't seen her, as her clothes were so dirty and she'd stayed so still, he thought her a part of the wall—she'd been crouched with her legs drawn in front of her and her back to us, see."

Áinfean's eyes were wide; Ruarc had her attention as he chuckled and answered the question he could see written all over her face.

"No, I didn't sing out—the man had stung my pride, calling me a liar. The little ragamuffin glared at me, then crawled outta the hole. _You told him where I was,_ she accused. _Well, of course I did, you little thief!_ I responded. _What did you take?_ She looked up at me with the clearest blue eyes I'd ever seen. _Nothing…much_, she said, then dug in the pocket of her shift to bring out a small apple. _There's a new horse in the paddock and I've a want to make friends with him, is all_, she added. _A bay colt, with black stockings and a white snip on his nose? _I asked. She seemed surprised that I knew the horse, but since it was my own, and I was new arrived, I thought it might be mine she was talking about. _Come on, __Firéad_, I said, pushing her in front of me, _that's my horse. I'll introduce you_. She glared at me still. _Fine, but don't call me a ferret ever again._"

"I knew I was in love with her from the very first, but of course, being a teen-aged man, I could never admit it, not even to myself, not then, not even when she walked back to the castle with me and I was trying to shoo her away, embarrassed lest I be seen with her. We were near the back door, by the kitchens, when I heard the voice of my lord behind me. _There you are, you little scamp!_ he called, and I remember feeling my face grow hot that he would call me such a name. The brat turned at the same time as I did, and Lord O'Niall's face was a sight to behold—anger, relief, affection, more anger. _Have you any idea what your mother and I have been going through, wondering where you were?_ he demanded of the dirty creature beside me before turning to address me. _My thanks—Ruarc, isn't it—for bringing my daughter home,_ he said, then grabbed the child by the scruff and hauled her off to the kitchen. Later, I asked and found out that Lord Fàelàn had married a kitchen wench, totally against his family's wishes, but that even before their marriage, he had unknowingly fathered a child on the woman. The child had stolen bits and bobs since she could walk to help support herself and her mother, who earned very little working in the kitchen of a local lord. It seemed the girl was still doing so, even after Lord Fàelàn had married her mother and taken her in, out of habit. They told me her name was Deirdre and I pretended I didn't care, but later that night I had dreams about the child—nothing bad or dirty—just the two of us walking, talking, feeding my horse, riding the bay together. I tried to envision her face without the dirt.

I saw her the next day, down at the paddocks, feeding my colt once more, and her little face was even prettier than I'd imagined, although she already had a smudge or two of dirt on her cheeks and her nose. I asked did she want to ride him and that face lit up. We took a small ride and wound up by the river, walking and talking like in my dream. When we got back, the other boys began teasing me. I took a swing at one of them and told Deirdre to bugger off, as this was no place for children. She took down the boy nearest her—nearly a man at fifteen—and then we were fighting back-to-back until the others lay around us, groaning in the dust. I turned, grinning, to thank her, and she laid me out as well with a small but violent little fist. _That's for calling me a child, Ruarc O'Brian!_ she hollered, standing over me with her fists on her non-existent hips. We were inseparable from then on."

Ruarc sighed and looked into the fire, memories tugging at his mind as Áinfean chuckled at his story.

"It's obvious you care very deeply for her. Why did you let her marry a commoner? Why not marry her yourself?"

Ruarc normally would have taken offense on Allan's behalf, but he knew the question was not meant to be hateful; he had even asked the same question of Deirdre's father once.

"On Deirdre's thirteenth birthday, I discovered that I loved her—really loved her—and wanted her the way a man wants a woman. I was sixteen at the time. Her mother made her dress like a lady for dinner, and I remember my mouth catching flies when I saw her coming down the stairs. She stared at me the whole way down. Her face looked so uncertain, but her body…she had curves I had never seen on her before and I'm sure it'll come as no surprise to you that I wanted nothing more than to take her out to the nearest dark place and discover every inch of those curves. Things were happening below my waist that were best not to happen in Hall, if you know what I mean."

Áinfean smiled and nodded her head, encouraging Ruarc to continue.

"Well, that very night, once I'd calmed down a bit, I begged her father for leave to court her. Fàelàn laughed and said I was thinking with my cock, but there was no humor in his voice when he said it. He told me I was just a boy, and he was looking for a man for his daughter. I wanted to leave—go to battle, prove myself worthy—and I was about to do just that when the suitors started arriving. Old men, young men, rich men. I knew I couldn't leave, lest Deirdre find one of them appealing; if she did, I had to be there to convince her otherwise. Plus, with the way O'Niall's knights were looking at her, and the things they'd say about her in our quarters, I wanted to stay to protect her from one of them forcing themselves on her. Three years later, the O'Niall's left for England, and Lord Fàelàn encouraged me to go and hire my sword out if I really wanted his daughter. By the time I found her again, she was already married to A' Dale, and the two of them had a babe."

"You're lord of this place. Why not simply kill him and take her?"

Áinfean's bloodthirsty question should have shocked Ruarc, but the thought had already crossed his mind when they had all still been in England, before he knew exactly how much her husband meant to Deirdre.

"Because she loves him. He makes her happy. I love her enough to want her happiness above all else." Ruarc had begun to sound maudlin, but quickly shook his head and grinned. "Now if he ever makes her _un_happy, I'd be glad to make a widow of her."

At that point, Kathleen came bustling out of the kitchen with supper, setting the food on the table, then plating it up for her lord and his guest and bringing it to them where they sat.


	13. Chapter 13: Plans

**A/N: It seems like every chapter, I have apologized for the delay in posting. I must've been much more relaxed in RL a year or two ago! LOL Anyway, at long last, the next chapter is here. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Guy stood on the forest track as the sun began to disappear, staring at his enemy. He hated this—had hated the idea of asking Robin for help in the first place, but had known it was the only way. Asking Robin meant hearing Robin gloat, just as he had when the sheriff had disappeared that one time and Guy had been forced to the choice of asking for help or watching Nottingham be destroyed. Guy asked for help now, not out of any real love for the peasants but because one day, Locksley would go to Roger, and Guy did not want his son to inherit a ghost town. For his part, Guy felt that Robin should have wanted to help, since the man still thought of Locksley as his own, but—as usual—Robin was behaving like an insufferable fool. Guy narrowed his eyes in anger as Robin stood, arms crossed, and just stared at him.

"Ask me again," Robin demanded.

Guy glowered at him but did as Robin said. "I need money to pay Locksley's taxes."

"That's a statement, not a question."

"Will you give me money to pay Locksley's taxes?"

"That's a little better. When you say _give_, I assume you mean _loan_?"

Guy looked confused by Robin's continued baiting. "What do you mean?"

Robin snorted. "Well, it's no wonder you can't afford the taxes for Locksley if you don't know the difference between a gift and a loan."

"I know the difference," Guy growled. "I do not have time to argue semantics. _Loan_, then."

"What's the magic word? Come now, Guy. Surely your mother taught you better manners than that."

Guy gritted his teeth, forcing himself to breathe deeply so as not to lose his temper and attack Robin. "Please." The word came out as a strangled growl.

"That's more like it. How much do you need?"

"The sheriff says the tax is shy by one hundred sovereigns."

Robin blinked in surprise. "So much?"

"Yes. I should have had enough to pay it, but I think the sheriff may have padded the books."

Guy continued to hold Robin's gaze. Finally Robin nodded. "That sounds like Vasey. Go back to Locksley. I'll send word tomorrow."

Guy turned on his heel and strode back to the horse, mounting and yanking on the reins as he kicked heels to the animal's sides. He felt like a fool—first for asking Robin for the money, then for being ordered away like a commoner and with empty hands to boot. If Robin decided to say no, Roger could very easily lose his inheritance and Guy knew he could never allow that. If Robin decided to say no, Guy would simply have to beat the money out of him.

* * *

Áinfean snuggled down contentedly in the big bed. The covers were thick and warm, the sheets were soft and the pillow cushioned her head perfectly. She took a deep, contented breath, idly wondering what Deirdre had put in her drink that dulled the pain of the stitches so well. Another breath pulled into her nostrils the scent of smoke and dust and sweat. The scent was not at all unpleasant. She recognized it as the same scent she had smelled on O'Brian when he had carried her from the kitchen into the sitting room. It only made sense since she was sleeping in his bed after all.

_Sleep must be making my brain fuzzy_, she thought, as images of O'Brian warmed her even more. She thought of the story he had told her about Deirdre and wondered what it would be like to have someone care for _her_ that deeply. Áinfean drifted off to sleep, feeling safe in a man's home for the first time in years.

* * *

Allan and Deirdre sat before the fire. The babies were asleep, Tom on his pallet, Jack in his bassinet. Deirdre was oiling Díoltas and Allan was tending to Captain Murphy's sword. The fire cracked and popped, Tom rolled over and snorted in his sleep, popping a fat thumb into his mouth and baby Jack seemed totally unaffected.

"I sent Michael O'Malley to check up on Murphy." Allan's voice in the near silence startled Deirdre, but she only glanced up at her husband, waiting for him to continue. "Kathleen told 'im that _despite your best efforts to kill 'er, Murphy is healing well._" Allan grinned at his wife, watching her cheeks flush in the firelight as he quoted the old woman. When they had first moved to Malahide over a year ago, Deirdre and Kathleen had clashed to such an extent that O'Brian had nearly had to rebuild the whole kitchen.

"Allan A'Dale, you know full well that Áinfean's wound was an accident."

"_Áinfean_ is it now? A week ago it was _Murphy_ and that said with contempt. 'ow long 'ave the two of you been sparring?"

"A couple of weeks."

"So when were you goin' to tell me?" Allan's voice never changed, nor did his strokes with the cloth on the sword, yet Deirdre knew she was in trouble. Again.

"Soon. Allan?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you ever miss it?"

"Miss what?"

"You know, the way things were."

"In Sherwood?" Allan looked up to see Deirdre nod in response. "Are you daft? Sure, I miss sleeping on cold, wet, moldy leaves and never bein' warm and worryin' about the sheriff catchin' me and stretchin' my neck." Allan snorted and turned his attention back to the sword.

"Well, sure, if you want to look at all the negatives. How about the plans? How about the thrill of playing out a con? Of winning and walking away with all that money?"

"Money we couldn't keep," Allan countered.

"Who cares? It was the game that mattered most, wasn't it?" Deirdre stopped rubbing Díoltas as she glanced over at Allan.

"Maybe for you, and your father richer than most kings."

Deirdre laid Díoltas on her lap, her face flushing in anger. "You know that's not fair, Allan. I was every bit as poor as you were when I was a kid and you know it. My da only came back and took care of us later on."

"That's true, but 'e still came back. And when 'e did, you never wanted for anythin' ever again." Allan's voice held an edge to it.

"Maybe not. But maybe that's not what I wanted."

Allan stopped rubbing Murphy's sword and frowned at his wife. "Deirdre, will you make up your mind? You're drivin' me round the bend."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, first you want to marry me, which is just plain daft. Then when you get pregnant with Tom, we decide it'd be best if you stopped thievin'—"

"We decide? We?" Deirdre leaned forward, trying to keep her voice lowered so as not to waken the boys, but angry nonetheless. "I don't know where you were at the time, Allan, but I only decided to stop until Tom was born."

"I was there, Deirdre. I was there by your side while you was layin' close to death with Tom still in your body. I was there when Ruarc came along and when he kidnapped you and Tom. I was there when you decided suddenly that you wanted a safer life. I was there tied to a post waitin' the prince's pleasure alongside Ruarc, shakin' in me boots thinkin' 'ow much thirty lashes was goin' to 'urt." He shook his head ruefully, his tirade spent. "And I was there thinkin' 'ow great it felt when the prince released us instead. Like the best con 'ad just been played and won. So wot's your plan, luv?"

Deirdre grinned and laid Díoltas on the floor, taking Murphy's sword and resting it beside her own. She bent forward to kiss Allan soundly on the mouth. "I knew I fell in love with you for more than just your pretty eyes."

"Oi! I ain't got a pretty anythin'!"

"Really?" Deirdre's hand dipped to Allan's lap. "Are you sure about that? I'm not certain I want to play with anything that's not…pretty."

"Well, I guess I do have a couple of pretty parts." Allan grinned and stood, pulling Deirdre up with him. He kissed her all the way to their bed.


	14. Chapter 14: Alliances

Guy strode through Locksley, glaring at everyone who dared to meet his gaze. The only one who did not look away hastily was Thornton; the reeve seemed as calm as ever as he merged his path to meet up with Guy's.

"What is it?" Guy barked. He had had a long, sleepless night. Food had not tasted right and so he had barely eaten. He had drunk plenty of wine, however, and his stomach was protesting the lack of food to soak up the alcohol. It was nearly sunset now with still no word from Robin. Guy's patience was at its end.

"Sir Guy, the mas…Hood is here."

Guy spun and grabbed the front of Thornton's shirt, lifting the older man up. "Where?" Guy closed his eyes against Thornton's surprise, lowering the reeve back to the ground as he fought for control. "I am sorry, Thornton. Where is he?"

Thornton patted the collar of his over shirt back into place. "He is at the manor, my lord."

Guy turned, took a couple of steps. He stopped and looked back toward Thornton. "Thank you, Thornton."

"You're welcome, my lord."

Fighting the urge to break into a run, Guy made for the manor, peasants scattering from his path as he went. He burst through the manor door to find Robin sitting comfortably at the table, his boots resting on its surface as he popped grapes into his mouth. Guy tamped down his irritation as he waited for Robin to speak.

"Well?" Guy asked as Robin continued to eat.

Robin swallowed deliberately and cocked his head to one side. "The gang have convinced me that we should help you. For Locksley."

Guy stared at Robin, waiting for the catch. "So where's the money?"

Robin dropped his feet to the floor, sending the chair's front legs crashing down at the same time. He stood and sauntered for the door, turning back just as he reached it. He threw a bag at Guy, then turned back and opened the door. "I'll let you know when your payment is due, Gisbourne." He stepped out, leaving the door open.

Guy stood, bag of coin in hand. He opened the bag and peered inside, finding what looked like one hundred sovereigns. Carefully, he closed the bag and walked over to close the door. He was unsure if it was Robin's words or the cool air, but a shiver wracked his body for just a moment. He decided it would be best to pay the sheriff and be on his way back to Addy and Roger before the winter storms set in.

* * *

Áinfean woke up in a strange bed. She yawned and stretched, looking around her as memory slogged through her sleepy brain. She was in O'Brian's bed and her thigh throbbed, reminding her of why. Deirdre's sword had slipped past her defenses and cut her leg. Deirdre had not only carried her all the way back from the glade but had then stitched up the wound, leaving her in the care of O'Brian and his cook. Áinfean had spent a pleasant evening with O'Brian, eating supper by the fire as he spoke to her about how he had met Deirdre.

At least the mystery of why the A'Dales were so close with their overlord was solved—the man was in love with Mistress A'Dale. Áinfean didn't know why that thought made her angry but it did. She knew it would be better to fix the _Murtagh_ and be on her way. In fact, the sooner the better. Feeling sympathy or anything but disdain for O'Brian—or any man—would only lead to trouble.

The soft patter of a mild winter rain began to increase its pace until it was drumming on the rooftop. Áinfean shivered and frowned. Rain would put a halt to the repairs. The knock on the door startled her.

"Who's there?"

"It's Ruarc. Are ye decent?"

His question amused her. Most men would barge into a room she was sleeping in with the hope of catching her _indecent_. This big, braw Irishman wanted to be sure she was covered before he entered the room.

"I am."

"D'ye mind if I come in? I've got to go into town and check on the _Lia Fáil_ and I've left my rain cloak in the bedroom."

She let out a most unfeminine snort. "It's your room, O'Brian. Do as you will."

"My will is not to get into town appearing like a drowned rat. But I'd rather not make you uncomfortable in the process."

Áinfean sighed. She had gone to bed clothed, as was her habit; it would not do for the captain of a ship to be naked should an emergency arise in the night. She sat up and swung out of bed, shivering as the damp, cold air hit her. Gathering her strength, she limped to the chair that sat before the fire, gathering a blanket about her and warming her toes as best as she could. Little heat was left, the fire would need stoking and more peat but not right now.

"O'Brian, you still there?" she called out. The other side of the door had been completely quiet as she had made her way to and settled into the chair.

"Aye. Are ye decent now?"

"I am. Come in, please."

The door opened and Ruarc walked in, pausing and raising his eyebrows as he looked at her sitting before the banked fire. "I'll send Kathleen in to fix the fire, shall I?"

"I'll be all right." Áinfean's body betrayed her words with a violent shiver that made her wince as her thighs contracted. Her wound throbbed and burned and she sucked in a breath.

Ruarc's look was pure innocence. "Oh, aye. I can see that." He walked to the far wall and grabbed the sealskin cloak from its peg. "All the same, it's her job to take care of the house, so she'll be along sooner rather than later." Ruarc put on the cloak and strolled nonchalantly back to the door. He reached for the handle before turning to gesture toward her leg with his chin. "I'd let her take a look at that wound, too. I don't make much work for her and it'll make her feel useful."

Áinfean nodded. He nodded back in satisfaction before letting himself out the door. A moment later, Áinfean heard his soft baritone and then the front door closed. Kathleen was soon bustling in with fresh peat and water.

* * *

Ruarc paused under the lintel, letting out the breath he had been holding. He closed his eyes for a moment, wondering what God was playing at now. Murphy had looked…right…sitting there in his bedroom. He was thankful that she had chosen to not receive him while sitting in his bed; he wasn't sure he would've been able to resist kissing her at that point. Kissing would have led him to want more. Not that he didn't want more now, he thought, smiling ruefully at the twitching in his pants.

Áinfean Murphy was a beautiful woman, but Ruarc knew that—as with every beautiful woman he had bedded—the shine would wear off afterwards when none of them measured up to Deirdre. Still, the pursuit could be fun. Murphy was easily as spunky as Deirdre. And no man in his right mind would turn down a chance to have a woman like Murphy in his bed. He sighed and pulled up his cloak before stepping out into the rain.

The Lia Fáil would be busy today, with work on the ship halted. Besides, he needed to update Murphy's crew on her condition; he had sent a messenger the previous night to let them know about the wound, but they would be anxious for more news. Secretly, he was surprised that Murphy had been able to shoo her second in command, the big Scot, away from her side. The man had looked like a dog that had been kicked by its master as he'd slunk away the night before. He felt bad for MacKenzie, being sent off like that. Ruarc knew that if he ever had entertained any thoughts of forcing Murphy—not that he would—MacKenzie would see to it that he paid, and paid painfully.

* * *

Deirdre sighed in contentment as Allan nuzzled her neck. His arm was slung over her side, his hips pressing against her buttock; as he kissed her neck and shoulders, she could feel him hardening against her thighs. He began to lightly thrust against her, his hand stroking her, slipping down to tease her nub. Deirdre's breathing sped up and she moaned as his finger found just the right rhythm.

It was Jack's cry that interrupted. Deirdre sighed and Allan groaned in frustration as she rose to tend to their youngest child. Quickly, she changed him and sat in the chair by the fire, exposing her breast for him. The baby latched on, his demanding grip a little painful at first until her milk let down and the euphoria stole over her.

Allan rose and began adding peat to the banked fire, blowing on it to bring it to life once more. Once the fire was going, he moved to tend to Tom, changing him carefully. Allan had learned the hard way that male babies could be dangerous to change. He always kept the dirty nappie covering their fronts while he sorted the clean nappie under them, then deftly switched the dirty one away at the same time that he re-covered the boys' fronts with the clean one. Deirdre watched through drowsy eyes as Allan picked up their first-born and joggled the babe in the air, raising him up and before bringing him down to rain kisses on his nose. Tom giggled at his father's antics, patiently waiting to be fed.

Allan caught her eye and grinned down at her. "God knows I love 'em, Deirdre, but I plan on turnin' tables on 'em when they're older. Every time they get a girl in a clinch, I'm gonna call for 'em, I swear it."

Deirdre laughed, smiling warmly at her husband. "I can't say as I blame you, Mo Croi. They do seem to have the Devil's own timing, don't they?"

"Aye. Soon's yer done with Jack, I'll need to be eatin' my breakfast, then off to the stable. With the rain comin' down, we won't be able to train outside, but there's still drills Ruarc wants us to run and weapons to check and fix."

"It's all right, luv. The boys and I'll be fine. Maybe you could come home for a long lunch break, though? You know, while the boys are asleep?" Deirdre knew her insinuation had hit home when Allan grinned.

"I could do that."


	15. Chapter 15: Anxious

**A/N: Thanks to jagnikjen for catching my oopsies!**

* * *

Guy rode through the pass and down the hill to the little seaside village of Mablethorpe. His new home offered him a far different welcome than Locksley had. Locksley's peasants had been wary and fearful, remembering his ill treatment of them during his employment with Vasey.

The peasants of Mablethorpe had no such memories of Sir Guy. For the past year, since he had come to be their lord, the peasants had watched Guy work by their sides. He had sweated at least as much as they had working the land and been a fair judge in their civil matters. He was a fiercely protective and loving husband and father. They respected him. When he rode through the village, the cry went out that he was home and people emerged from their cottages instead of scurrying to them. It felt better. It felt right.

Happiness swelled his chest, particularly as he nudged his stallion toward the manor and saw the smiling face of his wife, Adelaide. Addy's belly had grown rounder with their newest babe. She held their first-born, Roger, in her arms; the child's pudgy face broke into a delighted grin as he recognized his father on the black charger. Guy swung down, all the worry and care of the past weeks washed away instantly. He wrapped Addy and Roger in a warm embrace and then the three of them turned and entered the manor.

* * *

Guy was snuggled up close behind Addy. The sweat of their recent exertions was drying on their bodies and their breathing was just beginning to return to normal. Guy pushed up onto his elbow so that his right hand supported his head. His left hand draped over Addy's growing belly, idly rubbing it. He leaned in closer to nip her earlobe, sucking it into his mouth.

"Did you miss me?" he breathed into her ear a moment later.

Addy shivered and closed her eyes. Her fingers ran over the back of his hand, rubbing lovingly back and forth between his fingers and his wrist. "Of course I missed you. How could you ask such a question, mon amour? When you were late returning, I was worried to death."

"I know. The men you sent to find me told me as much." She could almost hear the smile in his voice. Guy was still surprised that she really cared for him, a fact that would have saddened her if she wasn't so surprised that the feeling was mutual. He swallowed and cleared his throat before quietly adding, "It could not be helped."

"What happened?"

Guy sighed, his warm breath tickling Addy's ear. "Must we speak of this now?"

Addy knew he was trying to avoid giving her stress, but they had insisted upon complete openness in their relationship soon after their marriage, when secrets and lies had almost killed her. With Roger and now a new baby on the way, she knew that she could not afford to be ignorant of any dangers her husband faced. Locksley, with Sheriff Vasey in power at Nottingham and Robin Hood traipsing around the forest, was a very dangerous place for Guy indeed.

"Tell me what happened. Please?" She kept her back to him, to allow him the chance to gather his thoughts.

The minutes stretched until Addy thought he would simply ignore her or that he had fallen asleep. Finally, a deep sigh blew the loose hair along her cheek.

"There was not enough money to pay Locksley's taxes." Guy's voice was so low that she barely heard it.

"Did Locksley do poorly this last season?"

"No. In fact, I was quite pleased with their progress. It seems I am a better lord for Locksley when I am away."

"Guy, if we wallow in the past, we are doomed to re-live it every day. Locksley is doing well. The reasons do not matter. Perhaps they are doing better because you have become a better man. Did you not think of that?"

"Honestly? No. At any rate, there should have been enough money, but when I went to pay Vasey, he demanded more."

"More? How much more?"

"One hundred sovereigns."

Addy turned to look at Guy, completely astonished by his answer. "Why would he demand so much? Did Locksley do _that_ well?"

Guy snorted in derision. "You've met the sheriff. He's an odious little man. He demanded that much because he's in power and he can."

"Do you think that money is all going to Prince John?"

"I'd be a fool if I did."

"And he issued you a receipt for the taxes in the amount you paid."

"He did."

"Then we need only to wait for him to step out of line. When the time is right, we shall find out how much he paid to Prince John and how much he kept back. We will need to be careful and bide our time. Next time you go to pay the taxes you will bring an extra 200 sovereigns. Where did you get the money, anyway?"

Guy's voice was tight as he responded. "Robin Hood."

"Really? And what does he want in return?"

"He hasn't told me yet."

"I see. In the spring, we shall accompany you to Locksley."

Guy chuckled. "Oh, really? You're suddenly quite bossy, aren't you?"

"I am. I don't like the way you get caught up in the war between those two. This needs to be settled, once and for all. Now get some sleep."

Guy's hand moved up to caress her nipple, pulling on it and making it instantly hard. "I have a better idea."

Addy sighed in contentment as Guy's mouth found hers.

* * *

Áinfean leaned on the cane one of the village men had made for her, watching the work on the _Murtagh_. Repairs to the ship had taken a lot longer than she hoped. They should have been gone already and yet, between her own injury and the nearly constant storms that graced the coastline this year, the ship was nowhere near ready. The pitch refused to set in the damp and the wood was becoming more difficult to find than a virgin in a whorehouse. Add to that the fact that for every two steps forward they took in repairs, some storm or other would come along and send them one step back. The _Murtagh_ was taking a beating by being grounded.

"Yer boat's shaping up fine."

Áinfean jumped, angry with herself that Ruarc had been able to sneak up on her. "The _Murtagh_ is a ship, not a boat, and she'd sink like a stone if we launched her now."

Ruarc bowed with a flourish. "Beggin' yer pardon, Captain." He rose and surveyed the ship, pursing his lips and glaring as his gaze raked it. "Forgive my ignorance, but she looks like a boat."

She threw him a black look.

"I mean, a ship," Ruarc corrected hastily.

"Aye, that she is," Áinfean responded. Ruarc's accent had thickened considerably, a sure sign that he was contemplating some devilry. She lowered her brows in suspicion, glancing at him sidelong.

"So if she is a ship and…again, forgive my ignorance…ships are made to go on _top_ of the water, then she's not really a ship at the moment, is she?"

"She'd go on top of the water if you'd give us more wood." Áinfean glared up at him. He only smiled beatifically back down at her.

"I'd be happy to give the good captain more _wood_." His emphasis left her blushing as he pinned her with his blue eyes. "Unfortunately, these blasted storms have kept my people busy repairing their homes. You know they come first, Murphy."

"Aye, I know. I just want to be on my way is all."

Ruarc's brows furrowed. "Has the hospitality here been lacking? Aside from Deirdre stabbing you, that is."

Áinfean smiled ruefully up at Ruarc. "Aside from that little incident, no. Everyone has been very kind. I just don't like to stay too long in one place."

Ruarc's look softened. "Afraid to form attachments, are ye?"

Áinfean sniffed and turned away, watching the gray clouds scurry in from the bay. Work on the _Murtagh_ would soon be over again for the day, and it wasn't even midday yet. She wanted to be back on the sea, even though it was the sea that had changed her life irrevocably and not for the better. The sea had taken her father and her brother, and made her into what she was. In some small way, every time she made it in to a port, she felt like she was thumbing her nose at her mortal enemy. Most people would have moved as far from the sea as they could, but Áinfean had been on boats since she could walk. She knew the sea was like a wild animal—beautiful and dangerous, only gentle when it wanted to be.

She heard the sound of Ruarc's boots grinding into the shingle and swallowed. She had spent far too much time with the lord of Malahide. If he knew her truly, he would demand that she leave, even if it meant she was swimming instead of sailing.


	16. Chapter 16: Aspirations

Ruarc sighed and turned to walk away. Captain Murphy was as close-mouthed as ever. He knew a great pain resided in her soul. He could see it reflected in her eyes more and more every day. He felt a pull toward her that he could not explain, one he hadn't felt the likes of since he first laid eyes on Deirdre. That pull made him want to help her, but Murphy was not the type to ask for assistance.

_Stubborn woman_, he thought, _just like Deirdre._ He frowned in annoyance before a small chuckle escaped his throat. _You're always drawn to the strong, independent women, aren't you, boyo?_ _Well, at least this time you're a man grown and can handle such a woman. Besides, the way the storms are blowin' this season, Murphy might well be in Malahide for quite a few months yet. Especially if the wood supply slows down… _

Ruarc began to whistle as he changed direction so that he was headed for the manor. It was likely Allan would be training with the men and Ruarc felt a need to work up a sweat before getting in touch with his trade contacts.

* * *

Deirdre swaggered up to the paddock, boots splashing through the mud. Tom and Jack were with the O'Malley sisters. It had been a week since she had wounded Murphy in their practice. Deirdre had not lifted her sword since then and had not visited Murphy, afraid to see the captain laid up. Deirdre knew that if she didn't pick up her sword and use it again soon, she might lose her nerve. It was high time she was back on her game.

The accident with Murphy had been just that—an accident, brought about by lack of practice. Allan had told her that he would spar with her if she needed a partner. Now that she was about to take him up on that offer, Deirdre's stomach fluttered with apprehension. _Díoltas_ brushed against her leg with every stride, an old friend that had her back. The sword's presence comforted her as she made her way to where Allan worked out with his men.

The clash of swords carried sharply in the cold air. Deirdre squared her shoulders and reached for the top of the paddock fence, pulling herself up to sit on the top rail. She watched for a moment as Allan expertly disarmed one of his men.

"Yield," he demanded, panting heavily. The man on the ground was equally winded and only nodded in answer. Allan sheathed his sword and reached down to help the man up, grinning and clapping him on the back when he was standing once more.

Deirdre jumped to the ground inside the paddock, drawing the attention of the gathered men as her feet landed in a puddle. She ignored the damp creeping into her feet. She had come here to spar. Once she had been an expert with a sword and no amount of discomfort would have swayed her. She was determined to recapture some bit of her old self, despite the shiver that moved up her spine.

"Deirdre," Allan greeted her, moving away from his sparring partner, "wot are you doin' 'ere?"

Deirdre met his gaze steadily. "I've come to practice."

"You've wot?" Allan cocked his head to the side, raising his brows at her. Behind him, the men moved about uneasily.

"I've come to practice. With _Díoltas_. When Murphy was hurt, you said you would spar with me. But if you're too tired…" Deirdre waited to see if Allan would accept her challenge.

Allan chuckled and dropped his head before looking back up at her. "I shoulda known you'd take me up on that. All right, luv. Ready?"

Deirdre unsheathed her sword and dropped naturally into her fighting stance, spreading her feet and loosening her hips. She bent lightly at the waist and held her arms at an angle from her body to help her balance.

"A'Dale!" Ruarc's baritone boomed behind her. Deirdre wasn't sure if he was calling to her or to Allan.

"You'll have to be more specific, O'Brian," she called over her shoulder.

Ruarc dropped down into the paddock behind her and tapped her shoulder with his sword. "I meant you, Firéad. It's been some time since we've crossed swords. Your poor husband is likely tired from exercising with all his men. It's my turn to give you a workout."

Deirdre turned her head to glance at the sword, and then turned a bit more, raising her head until she had Ruarc pinned in a disdainful gaze. "Ye think yer man enough for the job, do ye?" Deirdre allowed her accent to broaden, batting her eyelashes innocently at Ruarc as a sweet smile stole over her face.

"Aye, well, someone's gotta teach ye where yer place is, woman." Ruarc allowed a small smile to flit across his lips, the devilry lighting his deep blue eyes as he waited for Deirdre to rise to his challenge.

Deirdre turned her head back, lowering it and allowing her shoulders to drop in mock defeat. "I guess yer right, Ruarc. I _am_ only a wee woman after all. Which will make it all the more humiliatin' when I defeat ye." She ducked quickly under his sword, bringing the hilt of _Díoltas_ hard into Ruarc's stomach and knocking the breath out of him. While he was bent over she danced around behind him. Leaning on the fence for added support, she kicked her right leg up, shoving him forward into the mud.

Ruarc landed, sending mud and water flying, then rolled quickly, gaining his feet in one smooth movement. He ran a hand down his face, clearing away some of the muck, but his teeth stood out in shocking contrast when he grinned at her. "Oh, now you've done it. Kathleen'll have yer head fer sure, getting' me clothes so filthy."

"Aye, I know she's not used to the master's clothes bein' dirty. Except maybe his braes."

"Think about my braes much, do ye?"

"Not when I can help it. But every time I change the boys' nappies, I wonder if yer out o' yers yet."

Ruarc laughed. _This_ was the Deirdre he knew and loved. This woman full of banter with a sharp retort always on her lips. The morose, guilt-ridden woman of the last week seemed to be melting into the mud of the paddock and Ruarc was glad of it.

"Besides, I'll tell her you started it," Deirdre added insolently.

"You know she won't believe ye."

"Well, I guess I'll have to make sure yer unconscious so she hears my story first, eh?"

"If ye think ye can." Ruarc laughed again, the sound deep and masculine, full of good humor, making Deirdre grin. They had sparred like this many years ago, before she and her family had left for England. She had learned a lot since then but so had Ruarc. Deirdre knew that she was out of practice. She would have to take him out and take him out fast. Unfortunately, Ruarc didn't seem to be in any great hurry. She attacked and he parried. He attacked and she parried. Back and forth the two of them went, measuring each other's skill and strength. Soon, it became clear to Deirdre that she was fighting a losing battle. Her breathing was labored and sweat ran down her body, soaking her clothes even more than the mud and the rain. Ruarc was breathing more evenly, although he was sweating a bit.

She needed to end the fight and she needed to end it now. She feinted towards the right, and then attacked his left, surprised when his sword caught hers anyway, circling around it and spinning it out of her grasp. Ruarc had neatly switched hands and now had her. As she stood watching her sword arc through the air, he reached over and spun her about, holding his sword to her collarbone, his right hand firmly holding hers across her abdomen, his mouth at her ear.

"Do ye yield, Deirdre?" he whispered.

Mutely, Deirdre nodded. She was shaken by how easily he had defeated her. Her ideas about having one last fling with thieving seemed more nebulous than ever.

"You'll come back here tomorrow and the next day and the next after that until I say yer done." Ruarc spoke in her ear, for her hearing only, then turned a bit and raised his voice as he released her. "Well fought, A'Dale. I got lucky this time."

Deirdre ducked her head in embarrassment. The sound of clapping had her looking up into the smiling face of her husband. Allan was clapping his hands as he stood, his gaze locked with hers. Soon, the others joined in and Deirdre was enveloped by the men, who were all congratulating her on a match well fought.

Later that night as he held her close in his arms, Allan whispered a promise in her ear. Only when he said the words did she realize how much she wanted it. "When the storms clear up, we'll take ship to England. I'm not promisin' anythin' more than visitin' yer family, Deirdre, but maybe Jack should meet his namesake."

Deirdre smiled and snuggled closer to her husband. "Thank you, Allan. You won't regret it, I promise."

"Don't make that promise, luv. Odds're good I'll regret it. But we'll do it anyway."


	17. Chapter 17: Conflict

Áinfean scowled at the clouds as she walked through the heavy mists towards O'Brian's manor. Ruarc's comments about her not wanting to form attachments had hit far too close to the mark. The longer they lingered, the more she came to care about the people here. She thought of one person in particular far too often—his laughing blue eyes, his cheeky grin, his handsome face and strong arms. Ruarc O'Brian was trouble with a capital T.

He had shown up every day in the past couple of weeks to "help" with the ship. He would strip off his shirt and pitch in—there were two problems with that; one, he was utterly hopeless with a hammer and two, his bare chest completely distracted her, especially when he would make a mistake and smile apologetically at her. _Damn! That man's smile is devastating._ Yesterday, she had finally told him to leave and not come back. He looked so crestfallen that she was on her way to apologize now.

As she drew closer to the manor, she could hear the sounds of swords clashing and men cheering. She headed for the noise, sure that O'Brian would be in the midst of it somewhere. She walked up and pushed her way through the small crowd of men who were laughing and cheering and shouting bets at each other.

"Ruarc's got 'er fer sure now!"

"Aye, but don't forget he calls her firéad¹ for a reason. She'll wiggle out."

"A ha'penny says she won't."

"Yer on!"

Another roar went up just as Áinfean reached the fence around the paddock of the barn. She peered through the slats to see Ruarc holding Deirdre with her back to his chest. Deirdre threw her sword to the mud in apparent surrender. Áinfean cocked an eyebrow, unsure how long the fight had been going on but not convinced that Deirdre was yielding just yet. In a flash of movement, the little blonde woman twisted and rolled from Ruarc's grasp, leaving him standing there in shock, holding her jacket as she dove into the mud to retrieve her sword. She took advantage of Ruarc's momentary lapse, catching him off balance and knocking the sword from his hand. Her sword tip dipped down to threaten his manhood and every male there went suddenly and completely silent. Ruarc swallowed, his eyes darting nervously to the sword that was aimed to skewer his favorite body parts.

"Do ye yield, Ruarc O'Brian?"

"Aye."

"And am I a better sword fighter than ye?"

"At the moment, ye appear to be."

"Careful, Deartháir², an' ye mince words, I may be mincin' somewhat else."

"Ye wouldn't—" Ruarc's eyes went wide as the sword pushed into the cloth of his pants, "want to hurt yer own dear brother, would ye, darlin'?"

Deirdre cocked an eyebrow, her look saying she wouldn't mind doing just that.

"I mean, not in front o' so many witnesses, at least."

Deirdre pursed her lips. "Down."

"What?"

"Kneel on the ground and yield to me Ruarc O'Brian or yer mother'll have one more daughter in her brood."

Ruarc began to chuckle, but a sudden small movement of the sword convinced him otherwise. He yelped and shook his head, his dark hair flying into his eyes. "All right. You win, Deirdre."

"Down."

"Well, I canna drop to the ground so long's yer sword is in its present position, now can I?"

Deirdre took one step back and Ruarc dropped to his knees in the mud. _Gods, _Áinfean thought,_ even on his knees with a sword at his throat he looks dangerous. _She shivered, sensing instinctively that Ruarc was only kneeling because he chose to, not because Deirdre had forced him to. _He must truly love her. _A black wave of jealousy rose up at that thought, startling her with its force.

Deirdre waved the sword in his face. "Well?"

With an exaggerated sigh, Ruarc spoke. "I yield to yer excellent swordsmanship."

Slowly, Deirdre sheathed her sword and bowed to Ruarc. "I had an excellent teacher."

"Indeed ye did. Although he's a bit of a sore loser."

Before Deirdre could reply, Ruarc lunged forward, driving her backwards into the muck. She reached to the ground by her sides and smashed two fistfuls of mud into Ruarc's face. He spat mud, laughing as Deirdre tried to wiggle out from under him. Allan stepped forward to help his wife and was instantly drawn into the wrestling match. Soon, the only things to differentiate the trio were their relative heights.

A shriek of outrage brought the fight to an abrupt halt as Kathleen bustled up and into the paddock. Ruarc stood up tall and Allan drew up next to him, his head just at Ruarc's neck. Deirdre stood before the two men, an unrepentant grin on her face. She scraped the mud from one arm and flung it sideways and back so that it landed on Ruarc, who scowled at her.

Kathleen glared at the three, her hands on her hips as she took in the situation. "You and you," she commanded, pointing at Áinfean and Deirdre, "come with me. Into the barn. And you two," she continued, pointing at Ruarc and Allan, "against the wall." Kathleen turned to the men who had been watching the fight. "Grab some buckets, lads! It's time to teach yer betters some manners." At Kathleen's orders, the men grabbed water buckets and proceeded to fill them. Kathleen, Áinfean and Deirdre disappeared into the barn just as the first buckets of water hit Ruarc and Allan. Áinfean winced as she heard them cry out from the icy assault and then her full attention was on helping Kathleen clean Deirdre up. _I'll apologize to O'Brian later_, she thought. _And ask after the latest wood shipment._

* * *

"O'Brian! Where are you, you two-faced, lying son of a worm? I'll have your testicles served up for dinner, cooked inside your spleen. Where are you, you spineless, soulless coward?"

Áinfean strode through the village, looking for the man she wanted to skewer and cook slowly over an open fire while he begged for her mercy. Men stood aside, women pulled their children to safety, chickens squawked and dogs barked. He had been promising her supplies for weeks, but the shipments had been slow in arriving, trickling in in small amounts. She had waited patiently, but now that patience was at an end. It was nearly Christmas. She had been stuck on land for two months. And now, to add insult to injury, the newest batch of wood was so completely substandard that it was nearly crumbling as they worked it.

She was at the door to his manor when O'Brian opened it and ducked under the lintel, wiping his face with a cloth. "And a lovely, shining day to ye, Captain. Has anyone ever told ye how pretty ye look when yer cheeks're flushed like that?"

"No one who's cared about life you moronic offspring of a half-wit dog." The amused look on his face and his casual comments pushed her anger even closer to explosion. She glared up at him, willing her hands to remain on her hips, fighting to control the need to slap the good nature off his face.

She needed to sell her goods in some of the seaside cities where people could afford to buy the items she had acquired and where the customers might not be related to her unwilling suppliers. She needed to be out of Ireland, out of Malahide, before these people found out who and what she was. Her crew might have to kill the locals to save her from hanging, and Áinfean did not want that on her conscience. Her illicit cargo was the main reason she had not hired any local workers to help with the _Murtagh's_ repairs.

"Come inside, Murphy. Why dontcha share dinner with me and we'll talk a bit, eh?"

"I'm tired of talking, O'Brian. I need proper supplies and I need them now." But Lord Ruarc had already disappeared into the manor. Áinfean rolled her eyes heavenward and took a deep breath to try and steady her nerves. Like a soldier marching to an enemy, she entered the manor, slamming the door shut behind her. O'Brian was gesturing to a chair beside him, where Kathleen had just laid a plate overflowing with boiled eggs and sausages, roast pheasant and thick brown bread drizzled with honey. Áinfean's glare focused on O'Brian, who sat as relaxed as could be at the table. Obviously, he had no idea that he was about to be gutted.

"Kathleen." His voice was calm and a smile teased the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps you'd best be on your way."

"But my lord…"

"Now, Kathleen." Áinfean arched a brow at O'Brian. The smile disappeared and the steel of command edged his voice. Kathleen disappeared out the front door without another word.

"Captain Murphy, if ye'd be so good as to join me." O'Brian once more indicated the chair, only this time, his eyes held something other than amusement, something a bit harder.

"I do not care to eat with a man who is—"

"Watch! Yer. Tongue, Murphy. I've a mind to tell ye somethin', a bit of a confession if ye will, and I'll not have ye standin' over me while I do so. I know ye don't like takin' orders, so I'm askin' ye. Please. Sit."

Áinfean arched one eyebrow at him, her anger still not assuaged. Stiffly, she moved forward and sat in the chair, glaring at O'Brian.

"Now. That's better, eh?" O'Brian sighed. "All right, I can see yer not in a socializing mood. I haven't been exactly…forthcoming…about the supplies fer yer ship."

_As if I didn't know _that _already._ Áinfean crossed her arms over her chest, continuing to pin O'Brian with her gaze as she waited for him to go on. He picked up a piece of bread, bringing it to his mouth and Áinfean's temper flared. She stood quickly, knocking the bread from his hand. "Tell me," she growled.

O'Brian glanced from the bread on the floor to Áinfean's face, mere inches away. He licked his lips and leaned forward, closing the distance between them until their noses nearly touched. Áinfean took an involuntary step backward.

"Here's where it gets a bit tricky, ye see. I been holdin' back on supplies of wood and rope and all, stretchin' things out a bit, ye see."

Áinfean stared into his dark blue eyes, confused by the confession. "Why…why would you do such a thing? You know I want nothing so much as to leave here."

O'Brian ducked his head, and then looked back up at her. Áinfean was surprised to see hurt in his eyes. "I was hopin'…that if ye stayed a bit…that maybe…ye might change yer mind about leavin'. At least for a time."

_Jesus, Lord. No wonder it's taken so long._ Murphy swayed, her legs wanting to buckle with the shock of his confession. "I...I…I'm sorry, Ruarc. I had no idea." Áinfean thought back to the past weeks. O'Brian had spent a lot of time at the ship with her, always watching, never lending a hand, claiming ignorance of all things nautical. No wonder.

Ruarc's voice broke into her thoughts. "I'll no keep ye any longer, lass. I'll go myself, right now, and bring back the rest of what ye need. Top quality stuff. I'll be back within a week."

He headed to the door. As his hand reached for the handle, a horn began to sound, its clear notes sounding urgent in the crisp air. Ruarc turned back to Áinfean, his eyes wide.

"What…" she began, then stopped. There could be only one explanation for the warning. There was an attack of some kind being launched against the village.

Ruarc's deep voice was grim. "Pirates," he declared before wrenching the door open and stepping into the chaos.

* * *

1. Ferret

2. Brother


End file.
